


To Thy High Requiem

by CallieMoon



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Episode: s01e28 The City on the Edge of Forever, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Pure Love, Sadness, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieMoon/pseuds/CallieMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>K/S "City at the Edge of Forever" AU. When Kirk and Bones are thrown into the violent, chaotic world of pre-Surak Vulcan, they are given shelter by Spock, an enigmatic rebel who poses as an assassin for the dominant tribe while harboring refugees of war. What happens when the weary, jaded captain falls for the unfailingly logical Vulcan will change not only their lives, but also the course of history, forever. (Also on fanfiction.net!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guardian of Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! :) Well, this is a story that's been festering for a long time, ever since I saw a certain Tumblr post that both horrified and inspired the hell out of me (linked below). I've been working on this story on and off over the course of the last two years, and I've decided that it's about time to start sharing it with y'all. Feedback would be dearly appreciated, as this story means a lot to me and has seen me through several important stages of my personal growth. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> http://plaidshirtjimkirk.tumblr.com/post/88639361736/imagine-a-city-on-the-edge-of-forever-au-where.

The lights flicked on in the small First Officer’s quarters. There wasn’t much to illuminate. Commander Sonak had been a precise, silent man, and it reflected in the hard sterility of his quarters. The blue Starfleet-issue blanket was crisply folded on the bed, as if no one had slept in it at all. His desk, angled beside the bed, only had a light touch of dust, and no pictures or metals winked atop its shelves. 

Captain Kirk, standing in the doorway, sized up the room. He glanced down at the list on his PADD. “Well, I don’t think it’ll be too difficult to find what we need,” he declared briskly, striding into the room. “Bones, you take his clothes, I’ll take the computer.”

Kirk stepped up to the computer. McCoy followed a few steps behind him and knelt down by the dresser. The first and second drawers were both empty, but the third held a small stack of clothes. McCoy took it out carefully, laying the folded garments out in front of him. Besides the science blue uniform, the Starfleet formal uniform, and nightwear, he only found one other article of clothing, a black Vulcan cape embroidered with golden lettering.  

“This,” McCoy called, looking back. “Who’d he bequeath this to?”

Kirk, bent over Sonak’s computer, barely turned. “He wants it buried on Vulcan. Set it aside for now.”

The captain transferred the last of Sonak’s files to a data chip. He tossed the chip to McCoy. “Vulcan Science Institute.”

McCoy fumbled to catch it. “Careful,” growled McCoy, his eyes gleaming. “These belonged to your First Officer. You could show some respect.”

Kirk ignored him and moved on to the stacked shelves beside the desk. “These all go to his brother,” he muttered, clearing out one row of documents, “…and these…”

His hands stilled on one document. He needed to glance at it twice to confirm that it was handwritten, as Sonak’s handwriting had all the exactness and uniformity of print. He had penned a note on it in black ink, and a small data chip was attached at the bottom.

Carefully packing away Sonak’s phaser and tricorder, McCoy looked back. “What’s that?” he inquired.

Kirk studied the page. “It’s a note from Sonak. He says that if he’s deceased, he’d like us to play this for him.”

McCoy rose and walked over to join Kirk as he turned the computer back on and inserted the chip.

They waited. Several beats of silence hung. Then, in a rich, warm alto:

_“Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me!”_

“It must be what he wants played at his funeral,” said McCoy quietly. 

_“I once was lost, but now, am found, was blind, but now, I see.”_

Jim stared at the computer, brow furrowed. McCoy looked at Jim and frowned. “Why do you look so surprised?”

 “I never got to know him, but I didn’t think of him as the spiritual type,” he mused. 

McCoy cocked his head. “Why not?”

Kirk laughed, a little bitterly. “Why not? Bones, we’ve watched civilizations destroy themselves because we weren’t allowed to help them. We’ve seen crewmen die in the line of duty and we’ve written notes home to their families—always saying they’d died heroically and for the Federation, but we both knew it was for nothing. And look what we’re doing now—cleaning up the quarters of a man who was killed two days ago.”

“That’s why people like us need it most,” replied McCoy.

He looked at McCoy sharply. “What?”

“Belief.”  

_“Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come/'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me—”_

A voice sounded in the hallway. “Sir?” it asked tentatively. 

Both men turned around. Uhura stood in the doorway. 

“Ah, Uhura.” Kirk popped out the chip, and handing it to McCoy, strode into the hallway to meet her. 

The young lady explained, “I was just going to your quarters, but I heard your voice in there, so—” She shifted. “Sir, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Kirk nodded, opening his palm. “Go ahead.”

She glanced down. “If possible, sir—if it won’t cause any problems—may I have tonight’s shift off?”

“Is there a reason?”

“I have—” She laughed. “You see, Ensign Thorin asked me to have dinner with him this evening.”

The captain thought. “Lieutenant,” he said after a moment. “That’s very sweet, but there’s a lot of work to be done before we reach Vulcan, and your first responsibility is to the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Uhura slowly, lowering her head.

“And with the void left by Commander Sonak…” Kirk felt McCoy’s presence at his shoulder. Sighing, Kirk pulled his lips into a smile. “Well. You can’t let Ensign Thorin down, can you? You have the night off, Lieutenant. You can make up for it tomorrow.”

Uhura smiled, bobbing her head. “I promise. Thank you, sir!”

Kirk nodded, and Uhura ducked out of the doorway. He and McCoy gazed after her as she disappeared down the hall.

“That’s a kind of belief, too,” Kirk said. “The strongest, and the most fragile.”

“Looks like she’s still got it,” murmured McCoy.

“And I hope she never loses it.” 

* * *

Captain Kirk gazed into the mirror, adjusting the high collar of his earth-and-honey colored Vulcan tunic. He looped the belt around his waist and fastened the bronze buckle brooch. Finally, he draped on his burnished golden robe. The captain regarded himself in the mirror, his fingers rising to the fine shadows under his eyes. Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair instead and strode out of his quarters.

He met McCoy walking down the hall, dressed in a shale-colored outfit.

“I’m already suffocating in this thing,” grumbled McCoy as they stepped into the turbolift. “Transporter Room,” he commanded. 

“We’re headed to a Vulcan funeral, Bones,” reminded Kirk, watching the Enterprise floors go by. “We need to respect their customs.” 

McCoy snorted. Kirk glanced over. “What?”

“It’s funny coming from you, that’s all.”

Jim eyed him. “You have his effects?”

McCoy held up the wooden box concealed by the drapes of his cloak. As he did, a book slid from under his arm and fell to the floor.

Kirk bent down and handed it back to him, glancing at the cover curiously. “What’s this?”

“Vulcan history and customs. I barely even speak Vulcan, so since you’re already a walking diplomatic disaster, I don’t want to add to the catastrophe.” 

Kirk chuckled. “Very considerate of you.”

After a beat of silence, McCoy asked, “So I hear Uhura’s going to sing the _Amazing Grace_?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s going to be lovely. By the way, how did her date go? Are the two of them together?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You never asked her about it?”

“The personal lives of my crewmen are not my business.”

McCoy frowned. “Jim, you always know what’s going on with your crew.” Kirk was silent. “You’ve stopped having dinner in the mess hall,” he pursued. “You don’t stop to talk to your crewmen. You barely batted an eye even when your First Officer died.”

Kirk took a deep breath. “Bones, over the last month, seventeen of my crewmen died. I hardly think it’s worth it.”

McCoy opened his mouth to reply. At that moment, the lift jolted beneath their feet. The two stumbled backwards, grabbing at the handrails.

“Not now,” sighed McCoy.

Another impact rocked the ship. Clinging onto the handrail, Kirk whipped out his communicator. “Kirk to bridge. What’s going on?”

The doors slid open to the transporter room. Kirk and McCoy stepped out. Sulu’s voice came through. 

“We aren’t quite sure, sir. Though we’re still in orbit around Vulcan, we seem to be encountering some sort of ripples.”

Uhura, wearing a copper-colored dress, strode over to the two. “Ripples? What kinds of ripples?” she inquired.

“We’re still investigating,” replied Sulu. “They’re doing no damage to the ship, so it looks like they’re perfectly harmless minor disturbances.”

“Good,” replied Kirk. “Sulu, can you take care of it?”

“Aye, sir. Now, you’d better get down to Vulcan. You don’t want to be late to the ceremony.”

“We won’t be. Kirk out.”

He shut the communicator and turned to Uhura and McCoy. “Ready?”

“I’m never ready to deal with Vulcans, but I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” replied McCoy.

“Tolerance, Bones,” reminded Kirk. “Here, take the translator.”

He passed McCoy the tubular object, and McCoy strapped it to the inside of his arm. Motioning them forward, Kirk stepped onto the transporter pad. 

Once the three were in position, Kirk commanded, “Beam us out, Scotty.”

Scotty nodded. “Send Sonak’s family my regards.”

The three disappeared in a flurry of light.

When they rematerialized, the first thing they became aware of was a sense of absence. While they had expected the hot, dry Vulcan winds, they felt only a vague coolness. Their ears detected nothing, not even animal sounds or distant voices. The three looked around. Boulders surrounded them, cracking the landscape and purple sky into jagged edges.

“Captain,” ventured Uhura. “I don’t think we’re on Vulcan.”

Captain Kirk shook his head slowly. “No, we’re not.”

“Some ‘minor disturbances,’” grumbled McCoy. “Well, isn’t this lovely.” 

The captain stepped onto a low boulder, struggling to see over the rock walls all around them. They were too high to peer over. Frowning, he jumped down, and Uhura and McCoy rejoined him.

“Where the hell are we?” murmured McCoy.

Kirk began to shake his head. A deep voice stated, “A question.”

All three whipped around. Behind several mounds of rock, a smooth ring of stone stood, glowing with pockets of light, the hole in its center staring back at them. 

“Who are you?” inquired the captain, stepping towards it.

“I am the Guardian of Forever.”

McCoy lifted his tricorder. Frowning, he turned to Jim. “It’s both alive and not alive.”

“I am both and neither,” confirmed the voice. “I am my own beginning, my own ending.”

“We didn’t come here for riddles,” said Uhura. “Tell us where we are, and how we got here.”

“I answer as simply as your level of understanding makes possible,” the voice responded. “You have been caught in a current of time. You are here and everywhere.”

The hole seared with light, and the captain squinted against it. Then, images flashed across it: the stars pulling apart, stars exploding, newborn planets blazing. As the planets cooled, various life forms sprang up. Humanoid figures blazed across the images, wild-eyed, tumbling across the dust in combat.

 “Incredible,” Kirk murmured. “4th Century Vulcan. This must be the week of the Great Uprising just a year before the Time of Awakening and rise of Surak.”

He stepped up to the Guardian of Forever, appraising it. Then, he cautiously reached forward to touch the dazzling array of pictures.

“Nothing at all solid,” he confirmed. “All a project—”

He vanished.

“Jim!” shouted McCoy. He rushed forward, Uhura on his heels.

“What have you done with the Captain?” demanded Uhura.

“He has passed into what was.”

“A time portal,” murmured Uhura. 

The two turned to face the Guardian. In the hole, a blank red planet stared out at them.

Uhura blinked. “Vulcan—”

“Vulcan is no more.” 

Uhura sucked in a breath. “The Captain has changed history. He’s…erased Vulcan.”

“Only him,” muttered McCoy. “Uhura, contact the ship. Get a landing party down here.”

Uhura took out her communicator. “Uhura to Enterprise.” While the communicator still flashed and whirred, nothing came through, not even static. “Uhura to Enterprise.” 

“Your ship is also no more.”

“What?” said both Uhura and McCoy.

“What about the crew?”

“They never were. Without First Contact made by Vulcan, Earth never achieved interstellar travel. Because of this, Earth, too, is gone.”

Uhura and McCoy exchanged a stunned glance.

McCoy said, “So Jim is wandering around on Vulcan in some godforsaken century, and we’re stranded with no past and no future?”

“Seems so,” replied Uhura.

McCoy blinked. Then, he set his mouth into a firm lime. “Guardian, if someone enters, can they return?”

“If you rectify the change in history, the currents of time will recognize that you do not belong at the time where you have landed, and they will carry you back to your own era.”

He nodded. “All right. Show us the dawn of Vulcan again.”

Before them, a red-hot planet once again burst with light and fire. 

McCoy watched for a few moments as life arose from the dusts of Vulcan once more. Then, he turned to face Uhura. “Uhura, when you think you’ve waited long enough, you’ll have to go through. You have to promise me you’ll try to find happiness wherever and whenever you end up. You’ll get a new career, meet new people, maybe even fall in love—”

Uhura frowned. “Sir?”

McCoy fixed his blue eyes on the young woman. “Promise.”

Uhura nodded slowly, understanding dawning on her. “Yes, sir.”

The image of Vulcans locked in combat flashed across the screen again. Whipping around, McCoy sprinted toward, took his leap, and promptly vanished.

 


	2. Fever Visions

A hot, dry desert wind buffeted McCoy’s face. He squinted, eyes burning with sand. A rocky, barren landscape blazed endlessly before him in the red sunlight.

“Damn it, Jim,” he muttered. He took out his tricorder. “McCoy to Captain Kirk.” The lights flashed weakly. “McCoy to Captain Kirk.”

Static crackled on the other end. He looked all around him, but saw no relief to the inexorable desert landscape. With no choice, he began walking.

As hours of searching passed, the sun burned his neck and forehead. Hot sweat crawled down his back and down his face. He touched his hand to his face to gain a moment’s relief, only to find that his hand was also feverishly hot. 

Once again, he spoke into his tricorder, “McCoy to Kirk.”

A hot silence greeted him. Frowning, McCoy turned around, going in the opposite direction.

A burst of dizziness and lightheadedness accompanied each step, and each swallow came with a sear of pain in his parched throat. McCoy reached into his satchel and drew out an emergency nutritional hypospray, holding the hot glass in his sweaty palm and struggling to think. He pushed it back into his satchel and kept going. If Jim had been in that desert for even a day longer than him…

He pushed the thought out of his mind and continued walking, comming every few minutes.

At last, the fierce red of the sky rusted and hardened to maroon, and the roast of the sun dulled to a throb on the back of his neck. The dry winds cooled the sweat on his flushed face. As the sun set behind him, it thrust long, severe shadows ahead of him. McCoy glanced around at the wide, endless desert around him, and as the shadows lengthened and the landscape darkened, the anxiety gnawing in his chest tightened to a hard knot of fear.

For what must have been the thousandth time, he took out his communicator and said wearily, “McCoy to Kirk.”

In the darkness, the lights flashed, and he could hear occasional pops of static. Squaring his jaw, he picked up his pace, and each time he commed, the signal grew stronger and stronger. 

Darkness seeped over the dusty expanse, and the desert transformed into a land of hard shadows and jagged outlines. Taking in a shaky breath, he paused and scanned the landscape. To the east, low, rocky hills edged the land, breaking the scene into harsh fragments. 

“McCoy to Kirk.”

The comm flashed and whirred. Comming every minute to a strengthening signal, McCoy stumbled in the direction of the mountains. Now that the sun no longer beat on his face, he grew keenly aware of the sharp ache in his feet, pulling at the sinews. He grit his teeth, ignored it, and went on, the hills looming larger.

In the last light, McCoy limped to the rocky foot of the mountain, the comm buzzing and flashing in his hand. He pushed himself up the slope, all of his muscles straining.

“Jesus,” he gasped. “Goddamn son of a—”

“Bones?”

  Both the voice itself and the raspy, helpless tone surprised him. McCoy whipped around.

“Jim?”

“Here.”

Kirk crawled out of the crevasse between two boulders. Even in the darkness, McCoy could see his state. His Vulcan attire was ripped and dirt-caked, and his flushed face raw from the desert winds. His deep-sunken eyes shone bright with fever.

“Jim!” McCoy immediately knelt by his side. Even more worryingly, Jim didn’t even protest as McCoy pushed him onto his back and began running his tricorder over him. When he glanced at it for readings, he swore under his breath.

“The sand got into it,” he murmured. “It’s broken, goddamnit.” 

He dropped the tricorder and placed his hand on Jim’s forehead, then opened his mouth to look into his throat. 

“You’re running a very high fever and you’re severely dehydrated,” he murmured. “My God, Jim, how long have you been out here?”

“Five sunsets,” he grunted. “Including this one. How did you find me?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy,” McCoy huffed, rummaging in his satchel. “Shut up and I’ll—” He fell silent.

Kirk looked up. “Bones?” he rasped.

“The hyposprays. The heat denatured everything. It’s all right, Jim, we’ll get you to civilization, we’ll—”

“No,” Jim replied hoarsely. “This is Vulcan, 4th Century. Vulcan before the great leader Surak united the planet with his philosophy of logic. There is no such thing as civilization. All the Vulcans are savage, hostile.” He paused. “We can’t go back?”

“We can, in a little while, but not until…” He sighed. “Look, it’s complicated, Jim. Just stop talking and let me figure something—”

A savage cry cut him off. McCoy snapped around. Jim quickly sat up.

“Who’s there?” McCoy demanded.

Three tunic-clad figures stepped out from the shadows. They closed in around them, daggers gripped in their hands. 

Both men clambered to their feet.

“We have no intention to harm you,” Kirk managed hoarsely, raising his hands unsteadily. Cursing under his breath, he switched to Vulcan, which he had last used in the mandatory Linguistics courses back at the Academy. “We have no intention to harm you,” he repeated in Vulcan. “Put down the daggers.”

One of the men snarled. He lunged forward, slashing at Kirk with his weapon. Kirk ducked, sending his fist towards the man’s gut. Side-stepping easily, the man knocked him aside with a swing of his arm to Kirk’s head. McCoy leapt forward, caught Kirk in one arm, and kicked the man in the knees. Howling, the man collapsed. Kicking him again in the forehead, McCoy swiped the blade out of his hand, parrying just in time as the second savage lunged towards him. Regaining his footing, Kirk twisted out of McCoy’s grip and leapt towards the third man, fist hurtling. The man leapt to the side and slashed across Kirk’s side. Kirk reeled, grabbing a fistful of the man’s tunic as he stumbled backwards. Yanking the man towards him and digging his fingers into his wrists, Kirk drove his knee into the savage’s groin. The man bellowed and fell to the ground. Wrenching the weapon out of the man’s hand, Kirk sprinted over to McCoy, who was locked in dagger combat with the last man standing. 

As Kirk arrived, the savage parried McCoy’s dagger and halted. Breathing raggedly, he backed up, dropped his weapon, and raised his hands. McCoy, frowning, slowly lowered his own dagger. 

“He’s surrendering,” murmured McCoy, turning to Kirk.

The savage raised his fingers to his lips, and a sharp whistle pierced the desert landscape. Kirk and McCoy exchanged a glance.

“Jim—”

A coarse growl sounded. The two turned. A slender beast leapt from boulder to boulder, its muscles bunched and haunches heaving. Its golden eyes and yellow-dappled back glinted in the last light. It paused on a broad, flat rock, arching its back and stretching its mouth open. Its long, curved fangs glittered with venom. The creature affixed his golden eyes to the savage’s. The man whistled once again.

The beast pounced down to a lower rock, snarling. Wide-eyed, Kirk pulled McCoy back towards the boulder shelter, but the savage snatched up his dagger and ran in pursuit. As McCoy whipped around to engage him, Kirk turned to face the beast, poised on a rock with muscles tensed in preparation. The beast stared at him with narrowed eyes, nostrils flaring.

Taking a deep breath and raising his dagger, Kirk sprinted towards the beast. The beast roared, leaping at him with claws extended. Kirk stepped to the side, thrusting the dagger towards the creature’s throat. Twisting away from the blade, the beast roared again, spraying hot saliva into Kirk’s face. Growling, it slashed at Kirk’s chest with its claws. Pain seared through his body, electrifying each nerve. He reeled. The beast, eyes glowing, slowly opened its mouth again. Then, it sprang forward and sank its fangs into Kirk’s shoulder.

As Kirk collapsed to the ground, the creature prowled over his body, its supple limbs rippling with muscle. Its heavy paws pressed down his pounding chest, the claws piercing his skin. Kirk, pinned to the ground, gasped for air, fists clenching. The creature’s hot breath steamed over Kirk’s face. The golden eyes narrowed. The beast opened its mouth for the kill.

The creature tensed and stiffened. Its eyes widened, and all its hairs prickled. Air puffed out of its nostrils and hanging mouth. Without warning, the pressure of its paws on Kirk’s chest lifted, and the creature collapsed to the ground.

Kirk gasped for air. Panting and heart racing, Kirk coughed, shakily sitting up. He looked around. Cornered against the boulders, McCoy was engaged in heated combat with the savage. Before Kirk could rise, a figure stepped up behind the dueling men, reaching for the savage’s neck. Within moments, the savage, too, had collapsed to the ground.

A wave of blackness washed over him. When he next opened his eyes, a Vulcan man stood over him, tall and slender. In lilting Traditional Golic Vulcan, he asked quietly, “ _Mamut bolau du ha_?”

Kirk struggled to push a translation through his dizzied brain. _“Do you require assistance?”_

“ _Ri_ ,” replied Kirk, though pain needled through all of his veins as he struggled to sit up. He gazed up at his savior, looking from his worn laced boots to his blue tunic to his angular face. The man’s sides heaved slightly from exertion, but his broad shoulders and clear gaze spoke of steadfastness and natural dignity. While the savagery of the other Vulcans made their garb seem savage and primitive, the quietness in this man’s dark eyes endowed his tunic with a noble, venerable quality. 

McCoy came running over. “Jim!” Noticing the stranger, he stumbled to a halt. “Now who the hell are you?”

The Vulcan turned towards him. “Though I do not understand your tongue, I am assuming you are telling me to leave immediately.”

“Close enough,” muttered McCoy in heavily accented Vulcan, eyeing the translator hidden in his sleeve.

The Vulcan arched an eyebrow. Then, he turned back to Kirk, his eyes falling on the claw marks on his chest. “The le-matya has poisoned you. Come with me.”

McCoy turned, eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? And how do we know we can trust you any more than those other hobgoblins?”

“Logically, it would be safer to follow a single ‘hobgoblin’ than to remain with three ‘hobgoblins’ and a le-matya. In addition, your companion is quite gravely wounded, and without immediate treatment, his wounds have a 98.98% chance of being fatal.”

Kirk made eye contact with McCoy. McCoy sighed with resignation, then reached down to help his friend up. “All right,” he sighed in Standard, pulling Jim to his feet. “Come on, Jim.”

Without another word, the Vulcan led the way across the desert with the two men a little behind him, with Jim leaning on McCoy for support. At one point, Jim opened his mouth, leaned over, and took in a breath to speak to the Vulcan. McCoy silenced him with a look. 

“Don’t waste your breath,” he warned. “If you pass out on me, I’ll be forced to carry you.”

Jim opened his mouth to assure McCoy that that wouldn’t be necessary, but McCoy again silenced him with a look. The Vulcan glanced behind his shoulder and continued on. 

As they continued on, the forms of great, craggy boulders rose into view. Within the rocky ring was the mass of a building, low to the ground, monasterial, cut out in rough planes. Looking back to make sure the two were following, the Vulcan walked to the door, took out a key, and slid it in. The door opened with a creak. McCoy and Jim exchanged a glance. Simultaneously, they pulled up their hoods, concealing their ears and eyebrows. Then, they cautiously entered.

The hallway was cool, with primitive orbs of electricity illuminating symbols and runes etched into the earthen walls. Taking one of the orbs from the wall, the Vulcan led them through a corridor, down a flight of stairs, and through another corridor. Opening the door, he gestured for them to enter the small circular room, the light glowing in his face.

Supporting Jim with one arm and glancing at the wrist translator fastened to the other, McCoy turned to face the Vulcan. “All right, would you care to tell us where the hell we are?”

“You are in the T’Karath Sanctuary,” he replied, fitting the orb of light into a round ceiling fixture. “Whether or not you are of the rebels, you have no cause for fear. Both of you are safe here and may take shelter in my Sanctuary for as long as you wish.”

The man’s words and baritone voice soothed Kirk, who relaxed a little against McCoy. Sensing Kirk’s limbs loosening, McCoy quickly reached out with his other arm.

“I’m fine, Bones,” stated Kirk, wearily but firmly.

The Vulcan opened a latch in the wall and took out two mattresses, unrolling them on the ground. As McCoy lowered Kirk down onto one of them, the Vulcan strode out of the room, promptly returning with a tray of earthen jars and a bowl of water. He knelt on one side of the man, while McCoy knelt on the other, eying the Vulcan carefully as he began to mix herbs.

“Korash,” the Vulcan explained without looking up. “The only known antidote to the le-matya’s venom.”

He dipped his fingers into the mixture, then skillfully began to apply it on Kirk’s wounds. Kirk gritted his teeth and a hiss escaped his lips, but already, he felt a pleasant coolness soothing the heat and sting of his wounds. He closed his eyes. Along with the tingling on his chest, he grew keenly aware of something else. As the Vulcan’s cool fingers graced his burning skin, a fresh warmth washed through his body, so different than the poison and fever spiking his blood. His mind vibrated, as if a sublime note had played and his soul resonated in response, completing a chord of wondrous harmony.

The Vulcan’s fingers lifted, and Kirk’s eyes flew open. The Vulcan gazed into his eyes, and he looked straight back. They blinked at each other for several moments.

His angular face slid out of Kirk’s vision, replaced by the glowing electricity orb on the ceiling. Squinting against it, Kirk listened to the soft clatters as the Vulcan gathered up his jars.

“I have treated his wounds, but he is severely dehydrated and he is running a fever,” said the Vulcan. “You must allow him to rest.”

“God, the day I see him resting is the day I retire,” McCoy declared. “Because then I’ll know I’ve gone crazy.” He looked up at the Vulcan. “Well, I suppose I’ve got to thank you,” he said more gently. “You saved our lives.”

“It was logical,” he replied. 

Setting aside the water bowl for Kirk and picking up the tray, he rose to leave. Kirk turned his head. 

“ _Pen-ni-bek._ Wait.”

In the doorway, the Vulcan paused and turned. The light softened the lines of care in his face. “ _Ha_?”

“You’ve never told us who you are.”

“My name is Spock.”

“I am Captain James T. Kirk.” He smiled. “Good night, Mr. Spock.”

He dipped his head. “I will see you tomorrow, Captain.”

The door shut softly. 

McCoy gazed at the closed door for a long moment. Then, he turned back to Kirk. However, Kirk’s eyes had already closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read, bookmarked, and left kudos! :) I'll probably be updating once or twice a week from now on. Callie out!


	3. The Needs of the Many

Kirk awoke several times during the night, but the mattress was soft and the sanctuary cool, and the bowl waited within reach whenever his throat gasped for water. Eventually, he sank into a deep sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, McCoy was sitting upright on his own mattress, reading a book. Kirk lifted his head experimentally. Only mild pain shot through his head as he did.

McCoy appeared by his side.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, reaching forward to feel Kirk’s forehead. “Your fever has certainly gone down.”

“I’m much better,” replied Kirk. He tested his limbs. “I’m sore everywhere, but my throat no longer feels like Vulcan’s Forge.” He winced a little, realizing how apt the common expression was. “How about you?”

“Also horribly sore, but nothing that won’t go away eventually.” He handed Kirk the bowl of water, and as Kirk sipped from it, he explained, “I went to the dining room to get more water this morning. Ran into that Vulcan what’s-his-face, and—”

“Spock,” Kirk supplied, handing back the bowl.

“Yeah, him. He says that he’ll be serving breakfast in about an hour.”

“Him?” Kirk inquired. “Does he run this place?”

“It sure looks like it. All the Vulcans stop and nod at him as he goes through the hall.”

“Really,” he mused. “That kind of courtesy is strange for pre-Surak Vulcan.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” replied McCoy, gingerly feeling a scrape on his shoulder.

“He must be a highly respected individual.”

McCoy nodded. “I could hardly believe it, but the Vulcans I saw looked worse than we do. Ripped clothes, faces covered with fresh wounds.”

“Spock said it’s a sanctuary of some sort. And he mentioned something about rebels.”

“This must be a place for refugees. After all, we’ve landed right before the Week of Uprisings.”

Jim chuckled. “Our luck.” He rose, gathering up the extra clothes he had packed for the customary post-funeral supper. “Well, if we have an hour, I think I’ll go wash up. Do you know where I can go?”

Heading back to his own mattress, McCoy replied, “Right down the hall.” The doctor met his eyes. “They don’t have much water, so you’d better not use it all up if you don’t want our host disapproving.”

“I won’t.” He smiled. “Thanks, Bones.” 

* * *

Jim emerged from the water chamber freshly washed, grime scrubbed off and wet hair groomed back. He gingerly pulled his tattered golden cloak over his fresh tunic, carefully tugging the hood over his eyebrows and ears. 

The halls were peaceful and quiet, illuminated by skylights, and the earthen walls glowed in the morning sun. Other Vulcans occasionally passed him, acknowledging him with a glance. Their eyes held mild curiosity at his attire, but no judgment, and certainly nothing akin to malice. These Vulcans felt much more like those he knew.

He found his mind going back to his own time. Bones obviously knew what was going on and seemed sure that they would return, but for some reason, he wasn’t saying anything more. Jim resolved to get the full story from Bones as soon as they had a moment.

Jim began heading down the steps. A shadow fell over the stairs. 

“Greetings, Captain.”

He turned back towards the threshold. A smile stretched across his face. “Mr. Spock.”

The morning light fell on his tall, slender figure, sketching soft shadows in the folds of his blue tunic and in the angles of his face. He lifted his hand with his fingers separated in the middle. Blinking with surprise, Jim momentarily returned the gesture.

“I wasn’t aware this greeting was used in…these parts,” he commented, lowering his arm.

“It is a gesture bidding long life and prosperity,” Spock replied, “used only in places such as this.” He eyed Jim’s robe. “Captain, I require your cloak.”

Jim glanced down. “My cloak? Why?”

“As you will soon understand, it is for your own protection. Also, though I can return it to you later, I do believe you would prefer it if I supplied you with another one.”

Jim chuckled. “I do believe you are correct, Mr. Spock.” His fingers travelled to his hood. “However, I don’t think I can—see, the thing is—”

Spock regarded him quizzically. Sighing with resignation, Jim pushed back one side of the hood, revealing his ears. Pressing his lips together, he watched Spock’s expression. His brow lifted slightly. 

“Fascinating,” he declared.

When Spock offered no further reaction except a cool, steady gaze, Jim offered, “The le-matya got my ear.”

Raising one eyebrow, Spock nodded. “I see. In that case, I applaud the le-matya’s precision…” The hood fell away completely. His eyes travelled to Jim’s other rounded ear, and the other eyebrow went up. “…and its appreciation of symmetry.” 

Jim shrugged out of his tattered robe, sheepishly handing the grimy, tattered golden fabric to the Vulcan. Spock took it and folded it carefully. 

“I also require your companion’s,” he said.

“Come down with me,” replied Jim, self-consciously tugging locks of hair over his ears.

Together, they went down the stairs, and Jim opened the door. When he saw Spock, McCoy instantly pulled his hood over his face and put away his book, rising to his feet.

“Well, look who it is,” he declared in Standard. His eyes flickered over to Jim’s exposed face, and his brow furrowed.

“Hand over your cloak, Doctor,” said Jim.

“My cloak?” he echoed.

“He’ll get us new ones, and he says it’s for our own protection.” McCoy eyed both of them cautiously. “That’s an order.”

McCoy sighed. He gingerly pulled off the cloak, ducking his head, and tossed the fabric to Jim. Jim folded it neatly, just as Spock had, and handed it to the Vulcan. The Vulcan nodded and took it with a veiled second look at McCoy’s, then Jim’s, ears.

Retreating out the door, Spock said, “I presume I will see both of you at breakfast.”

“You can count on us,” replied Jim, smiling.

“I do not doubt it.” He nodded at McCoy. “Good morning, Doctor.” He turned back to Jim. “Good morning, Captain.”

They briefly met eyes. Then, Jim shut the door. 

His hand lingered on the wood. McCoy, taking a seat once more, glanced up at him. Jim promptly turned and strode towards his own mattress, plopping down. 

“All right, Bones, you have questions. I’ll tell you now that I don’t know the answers, but Spock says we’ll understand soon, so that’ll have to be good enough for now.”

“I’m sure he has questions, too,” replied McCoy. “Didn’t he say anything about your face?”

“He said, ‘Fascinating.’”

“Hmm.” McCoy sighed. “Well, I guess we’re lucky we ran into him. Him accepting us, even with us speaking a different language, our funny clothes, our appearances.”

Jim nodded slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yeah.” He snapped his attention back to McCoy. “Bones, what’s up our situation here? How long are we staying, and how are we getting back?”

Having anticipated this conversation, McCoy pursed his lips. “Well, Jim. I think you’ve figured out that we’ve travelled through a time portal.”

“That much is obvious.”

“I jumped in several minutes after you. The moment you jumped in…” McCoy took a breath. “Well, the entire planet disappeared.”

Jim’s brow furrowed. “What planet?”

“Vulcan.”

“I…destroyed Vulcan?”

“There’s more. When we tried to establish connection with the Enterprise, the ship was also gone, because without Vulcan’s help, Earth never achieved interstellar travel.”

“That makes sense,” said Jim. “After all, it was Zefram Cochrane’s first contact with the Vulcans that really got interstellar travel started on Earth.”

“Yes. But there’s one part I don’t get. Somehow, without interstellar travel, humanity on Earth got wiped out.”

Jim blinked, processing. “Two planets…”

“One’s future affecting the other’s.”

“Like entangled particles across a distance.”

“Their futures intertwined.”

“Never and always touching and touched,” murmured Jim. McCoy glanced at him. Jim continued, “So something I did—will do—is going to change the future, eventually leading to the destruction of Vulcan.”

“Pretty much.”

“God.” Jim’s chin sank onto his hands, his headache returning. “How much time do I have left to set this right?”

“About a week. Once we fix whatever it is and time proceeds in its normal flow, it’ll recognize us as out of place in that place and time, and it’ll sweep us back where we need to be. Like a body rejecting a foreign substance.”

“Incredible,” Jim murmured. “Bones, what is the event that changed history?”

“I have no idea, but I recorded the history going by on my tricorder. The sand got in it and it’s broken. I’ll need to fix it.”

“I can’t imagine I raised a revolution in the space of a week,” Jim mused. “Or stopped one.”

McCoy snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past you. Well, who says it needs to be a whole revolution? It’s the little things that change everything.”

Just then, something slipped under the door. Both glanced over. Jim rose to pick up the folded fabric, shaking it out. They were two short sand-colored capes.

Jim gave McCoy a pointed look as if to say “I told you so” and tossed one to him. Catching it, McCoy returned the look with willful resignation. The two simultaneously pulled on their capes and tugged up the hoods, noting the ample fabric around their ears. They were thin and just the right size, resting lightly on their shoulders.

“I can live with this,” McCoy admitted.

After a few minutes, they headed out the door to breakfast. The light now shone with a more intense red hue, the evenly spaced pinholes in the ceiling illuminating the hall. The two strode past the other Vulcans, glancing furtively around and often reaching up to readjust their hoods. Now that they wore more traditional Vulcan garb, the others hardly gave them a second look. As McCoy had said, many of the Vulcans wore ripped, tattered tunics, much like their own. Some were clearly injured, limping or relying on sticks. However, what struck Jim was how many Vulcans had their hoods up, shadowing their faces. In this sanctuary, he and McCoy hardly stood out. In fact, if they did stand out, it was rather for seeming more ordinary than the rest.

Jim and McCoy soon reached the end of the hallway, which branched into several more corridors. Jim stopped a Vulcan in a worn red cloak.

“Excuse me,” he said in Vulcan.

The Vulcan paused and turned to them, revealing a worn-down, yet startlingly young and open face. “Yes?”

“Which way is the dining hall?”

“I am going there myself,” he replied. “You may accompany me there.”

“That would be great, thank you.”

He led them into the wide center corridor. As they walked, he made conversation.

“You have recently arrived,” he observed. “What do you go by?”

“I’m Captain, and he’s Doctor,” said Jim, gesturing at McCoy.

“Unusual names,” he acknowledged. “I am Aravik. I have been here for six months.”

“Six months?” echoed Jim. “That’s quite a long time. The two of us only came last night. What is this place exactly?”

“It is, to most, a stopping-place and a sleeping-place. However, it is also sanctuary for those of us who have no other place to go: those of us whose homes have been destroyed, or those of us hunted by rival tribes. Refugees from all sides are accepted here.”

“Refugees of the civil war,” said McCoy in his accented Vulcan.

“Yes,” said Aravik, his eyes bright. “He takes them all in.”

“Who is he, exactly?” inquired Jim. “The man who runs this place.”

“He is our great teacher.”

“Great teacher?” repeated Jim.

Aravik nodded eagerly. “You will see soon. He is harsh, but logical and just.” As they reached a large door, he concluded, “Spock will be a great figure in history, remembered for thousands of years.” 

He pushed open the door and allowed the two to pass through first. Nodding and thanking him, Jim and McCoy exchanged a hooded glance. 

The dining hall was a room with a single long wooden table, with a high ceiling and double doors at the end leading to the outside. A stone counter sat on one end of the room, where Vulcans were preparing the meal in earthen bowls. 

“The line begins here,” said Avarik, gesturing. “I am on duty for serving the meal today. It was pleasant to meet you.”

They returned his sentiment. He strode to the counter while they took their places in the line.  

When it got to their turn, a Vulcan scooped soup into two bowls and handed it to them. They headed to the long table, where several Vulcans already sat, their posture impeccable as they talked quietly between spoonfuls. 

Jim gestured to an empty spot between two groups of Vulcans, and McCoy nodded. They stepped up to the table.

“May we sit here?” Jim asked in Vulcan.

One of them turned. “Of course,” the Vulcan said. “Join us.”

The two settled down next to the group and began to eat. The soup was cool and light, settling comfortably in their stomachs. 

As they ate, the Vulcan beside them turned towards them. “What are you called?”

Jim introduced them as he had earlier. Her eyebrows lifted at the unusual names, but like Aravik, she didn’t comment.

“I am T’Prylla,” she replied. “Aravik and I have been here for six months.”

“We just met an Aravik,” said McCoy. “He helped us get here. Nice young fellow. Would it happen to be the same one?”

Her lips touched on a smile. “I would hope so, because I don’t believe I could manage two.”

Simultaneously, she and Jim reached for an earthen jug. Their hands bumped. As Jim withdrew, T’Prylla briefly looked up at him. Then, she lifted the jug, pouring Jim and McCoy cups of water.  “I presume you are new arrivals?” she said, handing them each a cup.

“Yes, we are,” replied Jim. He took the cup. “Thank you.”

“Then you are soon to witness something,” she said. “Do not be alarmed. On our signal, you must duck under the table.”

“Under the _table_?” inquired McCoy.

At that moment, a figure walked through the door. Jim turned. Spock had come. An immediate silence fell as all the Vulcans put down their spoons and nodded at him respectfully. He strode to the head of the table.

“Good morning,” he greeted. “I presume that some of you have already met our new arrivals.”

He nodded at Jim and McCoy. 

“The rest of you are undoubtedly aware of the forthcoming procedure. Before anything further—”

A sharp knock sounded on the front door. Spock stopped speaking. T’Prylla looked at Jim and McCoy and gestured towards the floor. 

“Now,” she mouthed.

She slipped under the table and dug her nails into a section of the floor. She slid aside a panel, revealing a rough, shallow hole. Blinking, Jim and McCoy crouched down, crawling among the shoes and legs and squeezing themselves into the tight space. Several other Vulcans followed them and pressed against them. The panel slid back over them again and a lock clicked, sealing them in hot darkness. 

For several moments, all they could sense was the breathing of the other Vulcans, loud and warm on their necks. The warm bodies pressing his limbs against his torso, Jim squeezed himself into the corner, pushing for a little more room. A cold, hard surface met the bones of his spine. He twisted around, and his groping hand felt something curved and metallic, likely a pipe.

Faintly, they heard the door creak open. 

“My lords,” they heard Spock greet in his even baritone. 

A rough, low voice returned his greeting. “Assassin Spock.”

Jim’s entire body tensed, sending a hot rush of pain to his throbbing head. 

“Yesterday evening,” said another, deeper voice, “a group of two men attacked us. Did you succeed in luring them here?”

“I did.”

Pain seared through Jim’s body, but this time, through his heart. His lungs tightened.

When Spock spoke again, his voice was low. “They have been dealt with.”

A pause.

“You have done well,” acknowledged the deeper voice. “Here is your reward.”

They heard a soft clatter as something changed hands, and Jim understood. As they completed their exchange with a few formalities, Jim leaned back against the hard metal of the pipe, his lungs released from the crushing pressure. As he breathed out softly, he felt a tingling in his mind and his body. For a moment, he had the strange sense that the relief he was feeling was not solely his own. 

They heard the thud as the door shut. A key clicked into the lock and the panel slid open, and light and open air burst upon them.

The Vulcan lady said, “Brothers and sisters, you may return to your meal.”

Amongst the other Vulcans, Jim and McCoy spilled out from the ground. As Jim pulled himself up to the bench, inhaling deeply, he looked up. Spock stood directly across them. He inclined his head, and the light from the high windows briefly flashed in his dark irises. His eyes winked with a steady danger. 

“I now bid you an official welcome to T’Karath Sanctuary,” he said.

* * *

After the meal, as McCoy returned to the room to work with his tricorder, Jim stayed back to help with the cleaning of the dishes. As they ran the dishes under water and wiped them with white rags, Jim turned to the lady next to him, the one they had met at breakfast.

“An assassin,” he said. “Spock poses as an assassin for the dominating tribe.”

T’Prylla dipped her head, putting aside one dish and taking a new one. “It is the perfect guise. He allows refugees into his sanctuary, then presents their clothing as if he has murdered them. It protects both him and those he assists.”

“It’s dangerous, though. If anyone found out—”

“—he would be killed. He does it nevertheless.”

By then, Jim had stopped washing his bowl. “Why?”

She almost smiled. “Because the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”


	4. Dishonor

“I find him most uncommon,” said Jim, settling on his mattress.

McCoy barely looked up from his work on the tricorder as he chucked the Vulcan history book towards Jim. Jim fumbled to catch it. “If your headache’s not too bad, try to read up on this era on Vulcan. Let me know if you find anything.”

After breakfast, the headache had returned, but Jim willfully ignored it. They spent the next hour or so working. Finally, McCoy threw down the tricorder with frustration. “God, I can’t do anything without some decent tools.”

Jim frowned at his reading. “I can’t imagine what this focal point in time might be. There’s got to be something significant that happened—”

McCoy looked up. “Or maybe it’s something that didn’t happen.”

Jim blinked. “Bones?”

He set aside his tricorder. “Remember what you said about either starting or stopping a rebellion? What if your arrival prevents something from happening that otherwise would have happened?”

A knock sounded on their door. Jim sat upright. 

“It is Aravik,” called a voice. Jim and McCoy immediately snapped on the capes and hoods.

“Come in,” Jim invited.

The door opened. The young Vulcan, red cloak freshly washed, said, “The session begins. We request your presence.”

“Sorry, what session?” inquired Jim.

“I suppose you have not been told,” he said. Though his expression maintained Vulcan composure, his voice and eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Taking residence here has certain regulations and requirements, and these sessions are foremost among them. Follow me.”

Jim and McCoy exchanged a glance, then rose and joined him at the door. 

A few minutes later, Jim, McCoy, and the other residents knelt in rows in a cool, dim earthen room. They all talked quietly amongst themselves, their voices echoing in the small space. 

Jim leaned in towards McCoy. “You were saying that it might be something that didn’t happen. What did you mean by that?”

McCoy inched his hooded head towards him. “I meant that your arrival might not have caused anything to happen, but prevented something important from happening.”

Jim considered, then nodded slowly. “What’s a huge event that happened around this time on Vulcan?” 

“It could only be the Awakening,” replied McCoy. “Somehow, because of your arrival, the Awakening—the rise of Surak, Vulcan turning to peace—that never happens.”

“And so Vulcan destroys itself, just as Earth will,” murmured Jim. 

“That’s a possibility, at least.”

“But how does the destruction of Vulcan cause the destruction of—”

McCoy turned his attention back to the front of the room. Jim looked up. All around him, the murmur of conversation faded as Spock strode into the room. He knelt before them on a small square mat.

“Good morning.” 

The Vulcans’ tunics rustled as they bowed as one. Beside them, Aravik bent down so far that his forehead nearly touched the ground. Jim moved his head downwards in respect, but dipping it too far hurt his head.

Spock continued, “The subjects at hand are distressing, and indeed, these are dark times. Brother wars against brother, and our planet is ruled by bloodshed and base Vulcan passions. We devote our resources to developing weaponry and to violence. Our actions thus breed war and terror in an unbroken cycle. Vulcans use the immense physical and intellectual capacity to inflict harm on one another.”

The words, spoken so serenely and unequivocally, freed something in Jim’s heart. He drew a long breath.

Spock looked into the eyes of his attentive audience. “However, we should not view the current state of our race as failure, but as potential. Consider what would result if we devoted the resources and energies we now waste on war and terror—”

A realization sparked in Jim’s brain. “—and instead spent them on life,” he concluded.

All the refugees turned to look at him. Spock’s gaze fell on him, and they locked eyes. Jim felt suddenly short of breath.

“Yes,” said Spock quietly, holding eye contact. After a beat of silence, he turned to look at the other refugees, and he continued to talk, speaking of science, analysis, and reason. He described a vision of Vulcan’s future, a society upheld by logic, in which all Vulcans worked together as one. He spoke of using the calculations devoted to missile projectiles to one day launch Vulcans into space.

As Jim and McCoy filed out of the room with the rest of the refugees, Aravik strode up to them.

“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” he said, eyes alight.

They both nodded. “Very,” murmured Jim. 

The look on Aravik's face was one Jim had last seen on fresh cadets from Starfleet Academy's recent graduation. Their wide, wondrous eyes were not yet narrowed with cynicism and loss.

Dipping his head to acknowledge them, Aravik turned to the corner to his own quarters. Jim and McCoy exchanged a long look.

“That’s it, then,” whispered McCoy. “Without Vulcan, there was no interstellar travel on Earth. Without interstellar travel, all of the resources that could have gone into science instead went to war. Humanity destroyed itself.”

Jim nodded slowly. “I find him most uncommon,” he repeated contemplatively.

* * *

At the second meal, it was McCoy’s turn to help prepare and serve. Jim, sorely needing a break from their research, accompanied him to give him a helping hand. He picked up the tricorder and tucked it under his tunic, just in case anyone happened to peek into their room. 

As they walked down the hall towards the dining room, the sounds of a loud altercation reached their ears. Exchanging a glance, they broke into a run, pattering up the stairs and opening the door. Jim found his hand traveling to his belt for his absent phaser.

The scene that greeted them was stranger than any they had anticipated. Aravik stood facing T’Prylla in the middle of the dining hall, with all the other Vulcans retreated at the sides of the room. Her dark green robes were ripped and trailing sand. 

“It is not logical,” he stated, his voice raised. His shoulders trembled slightly, the crumpled cloak draped over them shot through with blood.

“No,” T’Prylla acknowledged, eyes flaring. “It is not. I never said it was.”

“You dishonor this sanctuary. You dishonor he who has done so much for both of us. You dishonor Spock’s teachings.”

She looked him in the eye, nodding slowly. “If you call it that, yes, yes, I do.”

At that moment, a door at the end of the corridor burst open. Everyone turned towards it. Spock, black cape billowing, strode down towards them.

“What is the disturbance?” he inquired.

Aravik drew in a breath. In Spock’s presence, his hands began to shake. He and T’Prylla both turned towards their teacher. T’Prylla glanced at the young man, but he pursed her lips and looked away. Taking a steadying breath, T’Prylla began to speak.

“Sir,” she explained carefully, “during the meal, we discovered that the water was not flowing. After the meal, Aravik went to the oasis to check the pipes. It was dangerous, you see, with the sun already risen, and him traveling alone in the light. When he was late to return, I grew anxious, and I went out in search of him. He had been kidnapped by a slave trader. Aravik and his captor were traveling back to the main camp.” She took a deep breath. “I shot him from afar.”

Spock’s shoulders straightened. “You murdered a defenseless Vulcan?”

“It is against your teachings,” she acknowledged. “The slave trader had already put his brand around his wrist, so had the slave trader lived, he would have forever been his legal property. In addition, if he had recognized him…” She trailed off. 

Spock was silent. Then, he looked at Aravik. “Aravik, is what she is saying true?”

He turned her eyes down. “It is true,” he replied quietly. “I was unconscious. As she carried me back, she took off her own cloak and wrapped me in it so I would not be recognized.”

“If he kidnapped him as a slave, it is likely he did not recognize him as a radical. It is also likely that if you returned here, you would never encounter the slave trader again,” said Spock. 

She nodded. “Yes. That would be likely. However, if given the opportunity, I would do that, and more, if it meant ensuring Aravik’s safety and freedom.”

Spock regarded the pair. “You are aware of the consequence of murder in my Sanctuary?” He paused. “More importantly, are you aware that your action endangered the entire Sanctuary?”

Aravik turned his gaze to Spock’s eyes. “Sir, I am well aware that it is illogical. However, I would have done the same for her.”

For a moment, everyone was still. All the Vulcans silently looked toward Spock, waiting for his word.

Finally, he said simply, “T’Prylla, your actions have brought dishonor and danger to everyone here. You will not be brought sustenance or receive visitors until I have made a decision about your state. Return to your quarters and remain there.”

T’Prylla looked at Aravik one last time. She murmured, “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “I am okay.”

She turned. As she went past Aravik, Jim noticed her discreetly extend two fingers, and he subtly returned the gesture. The pads of their fingers brushed as she walked out through the gathered crowd, disappearing through the door.

Spock addressed the refugees. “The meal will proceed as scheduled. I expect to see you there soon.”

He turned, his cape rippling behind him. He strode up the length of the room and opened the door.

A sharp rap sounded on the door. Spock stood upright, his attention snapping back across the room. All the Vulcans around the room froze.

Spock didn’t even turn. “Refugees, conceal yourselves. The rest of you, go about your usual business.” 

Wordlessly, the Vulcans dispersed, some heading swiftly to the benches and others noiselessly gathering behind the counter. As spoons and bowls whipped out from cabinets, a group of refugees flocked to the table. Aravik crouched underneath, pushing aside the slab. In a horde of elbows and knees, Kirk and McCoy crawled underneath and crowded into the hot, airless space as the slab grated shut above them. With the click of a lock, the darkness breathlessly swallowed them up.

Above ground, Spock turned to survey the Vulcans at work at the counter and muttering tensely at the tables. Straightening his shoulders, he coolly strode towards the door and opened it.

At the sight that greeted him, his body tensed. A party of close to twenty Vulcans faced him, dressed in rough tunics, daggers gleaming at their thighs. Spock firmly set his mouth and fixed his eyes onto the man at the head of the group. The angry pink scars along his exposed shoulder denoted his high rank.

“Good day,” he greeted evenly. 

The leader met his eyes sharply. “Assassin Spock,” he said in a gravelly voice. “An hour ago today, we found my brother killed. My comrades report seeing a woman fleeing the scene.”

Spock’s expression remained unflinching. “I extend my condolences. Who is this woman you speak of?”

“That is what we want you to explain,” replied the man, his eyes gripping Spock’s. “According to all accounts, the woman is exactly identical to the radical T’Prylla, whom we ordered you to assassinate six months ago.”

Spock dipped his head, jaw tight. “As I did. You say this woman was exactly identical?”

His nostrils flared, and his eyes blew wide with fury. “I say that you are a liar and a cheat, and you are harboring T’Prylla—and maybe others—here in your sanctuary!” 

In the hot, tight silence that followed, Spock heard the sounds of bowls clattering and spoons stilling as the Vulcans behind him stopped what they were doing. Clasping his hands behind his back, he made a small signal for them to resume their activities.

“I understand that you are distressed over the death of your brother, and again, I extend my condolences,” Spock said, attuning one ear to the continuing clanks and rattles behind him. “However, I entreat you to think through this logically. If this woman were fleeing, as you described, the men likely were unable to clearly see her face. It is highly probable that their impression of her features were mistaken.”

“You can say what you like, with your logic and your reason,” the leader returned, his hot breath steaming on Spock’s face. “However, we have come to investigate ourselves.”

Spock’s lips tightened. He dipped his head. “Please.”

The leader gestured over his shoulder and strode into the sanctuary, pushing Spock aside. Clad in rough, sandy tunics, they swarmed into the sanctuary like locusts. They seized upon the Vulcans at the table, tying lengths of rope around their wrists, while a few more fanned out to the counter and tore away the Vulcans they there. Spock stepped forward, but the leader shoved him roughly back against the wall, pressing a dagger against his throat. 

The warriors pushed the innocent Vulcans against the side wall, one or two men per Vulcan, gripping their bound arms. The men and women struggled against them helplessly. The leader walked down the line, carefully inspecting each face. He stopped before one Vulcan, grabbing his chin and looking him up and down. Finally, he let go and continued his walk.

After several rounds, he stopped in front of Spock. “If you confess now, we will spare your life.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “While it is a tempting proposition, I am afraid that I have nothing to confess.”

“Begin the search!” growled the leader.

* * *

The refugees, huddled in the crowded space, listened to the noise of heavy boots, cabinets slamming, and shouted orders. Jim sucked in the hot, moist air through his nostrils, and his lungs gasped for more. Sweat crawled over his skin, and he felt his joints and collar growing slick.

A thud sounded above him as the warriors lifted and dropped an object in search. Jim shifted his position, fighting for relief for his cramped joints. His arm ended up pressed against a Vulcan’s torso, and he felt the hard hammer of a heartbeat. He wasn’t sure whether it was the Vulcan’s or his own. 

He attempted to draw a deep breath, and his chest tightened. The noise of footfalls sounded right above them. The refugees pressed together in the sticky heat, holding their breaths until the footfalls passed.

Above them, they heard a voice report, “We’ve found nothing, sir.”

“Then continue searching,” the leader ordered gruffly.

* * *

As Spock looked on, pinned against the wall by a swordswoman, they swarmed out the door into the halls. The remaining men crawled all over the dining area, inspecting each crack in the wall and every small opening.

The leader stood at the other side of the doorway from Spock. Without turning his head, Spock glanced swiftly sideways. The man’s brow deepened in mounting fury, and the muscle in his jaw throbbed.

A group of warriors swarmed through the door and spread into the kitchen for the third time, opening cabinets and sweeping through them. Turning his eyes away, Spock looked over at the men and women lined up against the wall. Their faces remained stoic, but they trembled against the blades held up to their necks.

A crash. His eyes snapped back to the kitchen in time to see their earthenware bowls shattering to the floor. Sweeping out of the kitchen, three of the tribesmen strode grimly out of the wreckage up to their leader.

“We have searched the entire sanctuary, sir,” one woman said quietly. “There are no doors or possible escape routes. We can only assume that Assassin Spock was truthful.”

From the corner of his eye, Spock watched as a green flush rose from the leader’s neck up to his face, exploding in verbal rage. “This is the only habitable place for miles around!” he roared. “Where else could anyone be? Where?”

“Sir.”

At the calm voice, the woman, the leader, and Spock all turned. Spock’s chest tightened. A tribesman knelt by the table, holding up a triangular earthenware shard.

“When the bowls shattered, a few shards fell into this crack here, sir. I think you should come and take a look.”

Spock clasped his hands tightly behind his back, suppressing the tremble rising through his body. He drew in a long breath as the leader made his way over to the table. The leader stopped beside his tribesman, exchanged a few muttered words, then ducked under the table. 

He rose from the ground with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes pierced Spock’s. “A keyhole.”

“It may be,” replied Spock, his voice quiet with the effort of keeping it steady. “The door has been there since before I arrived. I am afraid that I do not know how to open the door or the purpose of it being there.”

The leader raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” 

Spock tightly dipped his head. “I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

“Very well.” He turned and gave his men a signal. Nodding, they turned to the innocents and began to press the daggers against their necks. 

As the cries and muffled pleas welled up around him, the leader turned to Spock and smiled. “Unless you open this door for me,” the leader stated, “your little guests die.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews make my day. Thank you so, so much for taking the time to read and comment. I can only hope my story brings you some joy in return <3


	5. Melting Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters for this update! :) Thank you so much for all the kudos, and all the kind comments thus far.

All around him, Jim felt the air sucked thin. Hot bodies trembled against his, and the noise of shallow breathing pinched the darkness.

His heart pounding, Jim strained to hear the voices from above. He heard one of the innocents cry out. He instinctively pulled backwards, and the cold, hard water pipe pressed against his spine.

Aravik had gone to turn the water on. He never made it to the Oasis—

He never made it to the Oasis.

Another innocent cried out. A pang of cold desperation seared through his chest, so powerful that left him reeling giddily. The fear both came from inside himself and from somewhere else, somewhere he could not define.

The world rushed back in on him. The darkness, the heat, and above him, Spock’s silence. As the silence persisted, Jim felt his hands clenching outside his own will.

“Open the door, Spock,” the leader demanded.

Jim sprang into action. Feeling the hard rectangular shape of the tricorder digging against his thigh, he twisted around to reach it. He ripped it out from under his belt. His hands fumbled over it, turning it to rest facing up on his bunched knees. Using his nail, he dug his thumbnail into the little latch and pried it up. The backing fell to the ground with a clatter.

“What the hell are you doing, Jim?” whispered McCoy, arm pressing against his.

Jim wriggled his arm free and reached forward. He felt the curved shape of the water pipe with both hands. Then, he paused to think.

He recalled the flash of light on Aravik’s wrist. He lowered his voice. 

“Aravik.”

“Yes?” The voice was a hair above silence.

“Give me your bangle.”

"It was a gift from T'Prylla."

"Please. I need your bangle."

* * *

Against the wall, the innocents gasped for air, writhing for relief against the merciless blades. Dark green blood glittered on the edges of the blades, trickling down their necks and staining the collars of their cloaks.

“Please,” Spock said. His throat was tight, and the word came out low and hoarse. “They have done nothing wrong. Stop this.”

“It is not us you should be asking,” the leader replied. “All you have to do is open that door.”

“I cannot,” he insisted. “I do not have the key.”

“You must open that door!”

Spock took a few steps towards the leader, then halted again. Though the rest of his face remained stoic, when the light dazzled in his eyes, it was clear that his pupils had blown wide with fear.

Behind him, the innocents started choking.

“You must open that door!”

* * *

Spock’s baritone and the leader’s heavy bass rose and fell above him, punctuated by the choking, pitching into screams. Jim gripped the warm, sweat-slick metal bangle in his hands.

The material the pipe was made of—he had encountered it before, in a laboratory class at the Academy. What was it exactly that grey-haired professor had said?

He felt Aravik’s bangle bending in his hands. The metal cut into his palms, and hot blood rose in his clenched fists. Still, he persisted until the metal band was entirely straight.

The professor had done a demonstration with a small cube of material and a Bunsen burner, his low, gruff voice explaining, _The relatively low melting point comes at a great advantage for Vulcan architectural work, as this material essentially turns to putty when it’s sufficiently heated, making it exceptionally malleable…_

Twisting around, he felt for the pipe. He placed one end of the metal strip on the pipe and quickly looped the metal around it, creating a tight coil wrapped around the pipe. Then, groping for his tricorder, he carefully touched the open battery pack to the tip of the metal strip.

Electricity sizzled. He felt all the refugees turning for the source of the sound. He gripped the tricorder in his hands, pushing the sounds of the screaming innocents out of his mind.

His hands grew hotter and hotter. He felt the heat crawl up his arms and up his neck. In the darkness, the coil started to pulse with a red glow. His hands shook and his heart pounded.

Another scream. Spock was running out of time. 

* * *

The innocents cried all around him. Unable to bear any more, Spock shut his eyes. Slowly reopening them, he took a deep breath. 

“Please,” he entreated again, his voice threatening to shake. “They are innocent. Free them.”

“Where is T’Prylla?” growled the leader.

“She is dead. I murdered her.”

The leader shook his head. He turned to his men. “We will give him one more minute. Then, slit their throats.”

* * *

Jim’s heart thundered in his throat. His hands shook violently, but he held the tricorder firmly in place. The glow grew more and more intense, crowding the refugees’ faces with red terror.

Back at the Academy lecture hall, that girl with the long antennae had raised her hand. 

_Vulcan is extremely hot, no? If the melting point is so low, wouldn’t the heat cause frequent damage to this material?_

_Excellent question. When it’s used in infrastructure, an additional coagulant is added to this metal so that if any damage is done to it, it repairs itself almost immediately._

An unmistakable drip. Jim sucked in a breath. More and more drips followed. Yanking the metal strip off the pipe, he reached forward. He had melted a decent sized hole in the water pipe.

Two screams sounded at once. Spock’s minute would soon be up. His heartbeat escalated, and his breaths came short. His chest tightened around his lungs. 

In his raw hyperconsciousness of fear, he felt a searing in his body. All of a sudden, he felt his thoughts and senses merge with a live, thrumming consciousness.

_“Half a minute, Spock!”_

He heard the voice both above and within. The breath caught twice in his lungs. 

“Everybody, into the pipe!” Jim hissed. He reached out, grabbing the nearest refugee, and pushed him towards the hole. A rip of fabric tore through the silence. Jim winced, and everyone tensed. When no sounds came from above, the refugee fought her way in, and the next refugee struggled forward.

_“Your time is running out, Spock!”_

The voice, above and within. Jim’s chest clenched as a live pattern of thoughts lit up in his brain in bright bursts. 

The next refugee, and the next, crawled into the narrowing space, the hole already shrinking smaller and smaller as the pipe resealed itself. Jim pushed each of them in.

Then: _“Your time is up, Spock. Decide.”_

Jim saw a vivid flash of green blood flowing freely from pale Vulcan necks. He felt hands gripped tightly behind the back, nails cutting into flesh.

The refugees squeezed into the pipe, crawling down its length, one after the other. Jim shut his eyes.

_Spock._

* * *

The leader strode down the dining hall, stopping right in front of Spock. His hot, moist breath prickled Spock’s face.

“Will you open the door?” he asked.

_Spock._

The innocents screamed behind him. Spock’s breaths came shallow, and the blood rushed in his ears. A strong, steady heartbeat pulsed through his thoughts, and his eyes shut again.

_Spock. Open the door._

A golden warmth washed through his body, seeping through his heart and all of his veins.

_Jim._

_Open the door, Spock._

Taking a deep breath, Spock opened his eyes. He spoke before he understood what he was saying.

“Yes.”

* * *

The refugees crowded the shrinking opening, anxious to enter the pipe. They trembled and pressed close together.

They heard the jingle of keys, and the approaching of heavy footsteps. Jim ushered them inside, urging them on quietly.

He heard the voices crescendo above him. Jim drew in a deep breath, and he felt the pulsing of his heart intertwining with another beat. There was a click as the key entered the keyhole. 

* * *

Spock knelt under the table with the leader hovering above him, his robes pooling around him. Drawing one last deep breath, he twisted the key and slid the slab aside.

He sucked in a breath. Save for the water pipe, the compartment was entirely empty.

He regained his composure quickly. Rising, he turned to face the leader. “As you can see, I was telling the truth,” he said. “I am harboring no one here. I was previously unaware of this compartment’s existence. It was pure fortune that this key worked, for it is merely a key I found among the others when I first came to the Sanctuary.”

The leader stared at him for several moments. “We found nothing this time,” he stated. “However, we will return. Expect us again soon.”

Spock dipped his head. “I anticipate your return.”

The leader looked at him hard for another moment. He turned away, and gesturing over his shoulder, strode to the door. All the warriors fell into line after him, and as Spock watched from the doorway, the beige swarm vanished into the desert.

As soon as they had disappeared into the desert horizon, Spock turned away from the door to the innocents, still huddling against the wall.

“The most badly injured, go to the medical wing. The rest of you, go back to your quarters.”

Hushed and gasping, the masses dispersed, some clutching at their throats, others supporting their friends. Spock gazed out, watching them go. Then, he strode quickly over to the doorway. He scanned the desert one last time, confirming that it was empty, then shut the door. He walked over to the open compartment, peering down. 

“Brothers and sisters?” he said, voice raised. There was no response. He looked around the space for some clue as to their escape, but he found none. “Brothers and sisters?”

“After that ordeal, we are now,” said a voice.

Spock turned, and he found his breath catching in his throat. The captain stood before him in his sandy cape and soft golden tunic. His hair was tousled and his smile exhausted, but he stood up as tall as Spock had always seen him. Regarding his figure, the golden light he had felt earlier resurged inside him, stronger than ever.

“The refugees are safe,” said Jim. “They’re in the water room. My doctor friend is with them.”

“I must say I cannot understand how—”

“There was something that I felt inside me—”

They spoke at once, then both broke off. Jim’s mouth twitched in a soft laugh, and he glanced away.

“Let’s not talk about any of it right now. I’ll help you clean up.”

The red afternoon light edged the scattered pottery shards. As Jim knelt down to scoop them into his palms, Spock opened his mouth, about to insist that he could do it himself, to tell him to return to his quarters and rest. None of these words came. Wordlessly, he knelt beside Jim as the thundering heartbeats—and the sharp golden light—fell away.


	6. Rather the Opposite

By evening, the dining hall had resumed something of its old shape. In cracked bowls, glued pottery shards, jugs, and wash buckets, the least injured Vulcans served a meal of soup and loafs. They huddled together for supper, gradually filling the hall with sounds of life.

Spock strode through the door, returning from bringing bowls to the medical wing. The murmurs ceased and heads rose.

“Good evening,” he greeted.

They returned the sentiment, voices strong with the familiarity of ritual.

“We have been through a difficult experience today and it has been a trying day for all of us.”

The residents murmured in assent.

“There are some details on which I am still unclear—” His eyes fell on Jim’s. “—and I believe now would be a suitable time to discuss what exactly happened.”

All eyes turned to Jim. He looked around, then found Spock’s eyes again. The Vulcan nodded. Jim put down his spoon and slowly rose.

“There’s a water pipe in the compartment,” he said. “Quite wide, leading through the building. T’Prylla had a metal bracelet, and I used it create a coil around the pipe. When I connected the end of the coil to an electronic device I had—”

“…it created an electromagnetic field,” surmised Spock. “It heated the metal to a critical point and melted it.”

Jim blinked. He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Forgive my interruption,” Spock apologized. “Continue.”

“That’s the whole of it,” said Jim, his eyes still on Spock’s. “The hole sealed itself behind us, and we crawled along the pipe up to the basin in the water room.” He hesitated. “And, because Spock and I were in--communication, that’s when he opened the door.”

As he concluded the story, the refugees’ gazes never left him, but all he felt were Spock’s eyes on his. The Vulcan drew a breath and nodded.

“Ingenious,” he said. “You have our gratitude.”

Jim nodded and settled back onto the bench, squeezing between two Vulcans. Spock continued, “Now, I must make myself clear on two points. Firstly, they may return at any time. Whenever you leave your quarters, hide your personal belongings.”

The refugees nodded solemnly.

“Secondly…” He drew a breath. “None are permitted to visit T’Prylla under any circumstances. She is to be confined in her room until I reach a decision.”

Jim looked up. However, Spock’s face was unreadable.

The residents exchanged a glance. Then, they dipped down to commence the meal.

* * *

As evening approached, more and more Vulcans returned from the medical wing, either retiring to their quarters or going to the kitchen to help with makeshift bowls and utensils. When Jim figured that the medical wing would be mostly empty, he slipped down the hall and through the medical wing door.

He passed into a room illuminated by gentle evening light. A young Vulcan stood stocking shelves. The mattresses on the floor were mostly empty, save for the one occupied by Aravik on the other side of the room. McCoy knelt beside him, wrapping a bandage around his wrist.

At Jim’s footsteps, McCoy looked up, his eyes bright and tired. “Jim.”

“Sorry to bother you, Bones,” he said, settling onto a mat. He opened his clumsily bound hands. “I just need to get my hands fixed up.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, turning back to the bandaging. “Just give me a moment to savor the fact you came in here on your own free will.”

McCoy shortly finished with Aravik, then walked over to Jim. He undid the cloth binding the captain's palms. 

“My God, man, why didn’t you come in earlier?” he demanded, pulling the blood-soaked cloth away to reveal deep red slashes in Jim’s flesh. 

“Firstly, I didn’t want to be clogging up the medical wing, and secondly—” He glanced back at the young assistant, only to find that he was staring right back at him with his mouth open. Noticing the two looking, he quickly ducked his head and continued sorting the herbs on the shelf, sneaking one last look at the unmistakably red blood on the bandages.

Jim and McCoy simultaneously looked at the crimson cloths pooled on the ground.

“Oh. Well,” said McCoy. He balled up the bloody cloths and wrapped them in clean gauze to hide them. Then, sighing, he reached for a salve and applied it to Jim’s wounds. He neatly bound them, carefully concealing the red lines.

Jim looked up at the assistant. “I have a blood disease,” he supplied.

“Sit tight here for another ten minutes,” instructed McCoy. “See if the bandages hold. I’m going to go wash our equipment." He headed to the door and glanced back at the assistant. “Coming?”

The man nodded, put away a few jars, and followed him out the door. 

Jim lay back against the mattress. As his stiff muscles relaxed into the ground, he grunted loudly in pain. Aravik, in the middle of ripping a bandage off a raw, bleeding wound, glanced over at him. Jim turned his head and shut up. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Aravik minister to his wounds. Aravik quickly ripped off the old bandages and bound his injuries with fresh ones. He winced occasionally, but he remained impressively silent and his face betrayed no pain. Jim couldn’t tell whether the impassiveness was due to shock or to being Vulcan.

He sat up and turned to Aravik. “Those look pretty nasty,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“They are large, but shallow,” Aravik replied. “The pain is not great. How are you?”

He looked down at his bandaged hands. “I’m all right. Just some cuts.” 

They sat in silence for a while. Then, he said, “The Doctor is your friend?”

“He’s a physician. We’ve…travelled together.” He studied Aravik's bandages. “You seem pretty skilled. Are you a doctor, too?”

“No, though I suppose I am now. I was a technician. I only learned medicine when I fled my home and I needed to acquire the skill.”

“What happened?”

Aravik drew a breath. “My mother participated in a plan to assassinate the tribe’s leader. When it failed, they discovered her part in it, and my family had to split up and hide.”

Jim looked away. “I’m sorry.”

Aravik’s eyes screwed shut. His fists briefly clenched before he eyes opened again, and he quickly regained his composure.

Jim frowned. “Aravik, are you all right?”

He nodded stiffly. “Yes, thank you.” As he said so, he winced again.

Jim began to get up. “I’ll get McCoy.”

“No.”

The conviction of Aravk's voice made him turn. “But your wounds—”

“It is not my wounds.” He shut his mouth immediately after saying that, but had no choice but to continue. “It is rather…internal pain,” he finished. When Jim still remained with his hand on the door, he sighed. “A man such as you would not understand.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“It is something T’Prylla told me. You likely do not recall, but she accidentally bumped your hand as she reached for a water jug at breakfast.” 

Aravik looked up at him, and he shook his head, indicating that he had no recollection.

Aravik continued, “She said that she did not sense much, as you heavily guard your thoughts. According to T’Prylla, the shields on your thoughts are stronger than those of many here. However, she immediately felt that you have absolutely no comprehension of this.”

His brow furrowed. “Of what?”

His voice grew quieter. “T’Prylla. In my body, I feel the living pattern of her thoughts.”

Jim slowly nodded. “Oh.”

“She is alone, confined to her room without food, deeply distressed: shock, guilt, horror, fear.” He looked down. “I can feel her, but she cannot touch me.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim said gently.

“I do not believe you understand, but thank you.”

They sat in silence. Jim opened his mouth, then closed it. Aravik looked over at him, but he didn’t speak.

After a few moments, he drew a deep breath. “Aravik?”

He turned to Jim. “Yes?”

“What’s it like?” he asked quietly.

The Vulcan thought. His face was drawn, yet sharp in profile. 

“Is it too complicated to explain?”

He immediately shook his head. “No. It is rather the opposite.” He paused. “It is a simple feeling.”

* * *

The sanctuary had already grown lively again by breakfast. While McCoy helped with serving, Jim sat down, greeting the Vulcans around him. They returned his courtesy, then returned to their conversation.

“According to logic, saving one life and endangering a number of others is a mistaken endeavor,” the Vulcan across him said. 

Another Vulcan made a noise as he painstakingly detached a piece of bread. “Indeed,” he said, prizing away a perfect rectangular piece. “Furthermore, it is uncertain whether or not the rescued one’s life was truly at risk in the first place.”

Jim’s headache began to return at the realization of what the conversation was about, and at the thought of the conversation’s subject. He ripped off a chunk of bread and chewed it thoughtfully.

“Then why do you hide in this sanctuary?” Jim inquired. “For some of you, it’s likely that the tribe isn’t even aware you exist. You come to this sanctuary because of the chance—the slight chance—that you’re in danger.”

“That is true,” conceded the Vulcan across him. “However, in our particular case, our presence here does not endanger anyone.”

Jim looked up. “It endangers Spock.”

A bowl plunked down beside his. Squeezing onto the bench by his side, McCoy muttered, “That’s enough.”

At that moment, the room fell silent. Before Jim even turned, he knew the reason. The silence grabbed his breath and his heartrate quickened as he turned towards the tall, slender form at the head of the table. 

Spock greeted them, and they returned the greeting. He said, “I am aware that the incident involving T’Prylla weighs on your minds.”

All the Vulcans nodded.

“Once a decision is reached, I will inform all of you,” he stated. “Until then, I remind you again that no one is permitted to visit T’Prylla in her chamber. Is that clear?”

The Vulcans murmured in assent. Spock dipped his head, bid them farewell, and disappeared through the door again.

Drawing in a quick breath, Jim lifted the bowl to his lips. Over the curved rim, he watched as the other Vulcans resumed their conversations. Then, with his other arm, he subtly nudged the bread off the table. He felt it land on the cloth napkin on his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make my life. I hope you're enjoying this story so far!


	7. Oasis

Jim and McCoy worked on the tricorder through the afternoon. As evening approached, Jim told McCoy that he was going to fetch a bowl of water.

Taking the tricorder, McCoy looked up suspiciously. “Oh, yeah? And you’re going to carry it back in that loaf of bread, aren’t you?”

Jim glanced down at the loaf tucked under his arm. “Well—”

“Jim, Spock clearly said no one can visit T’Prylla,” McCoy pointed out.

Jim looked away. “Spock doesn’t need to know.”

Upon slipping out of his room, he dropped by the infirmary to glean the location of T’Prylla’s room. Then, bread tucked securely under his arm, he disappeared down a small corridor.

* * *

After a few minutes, he reemerged through a low, narrow door, shutting it securely behind him. He carefully reattached the ends of the circular padlock, and they snapped quietly back together.

“Captain, I must say that your lock manipulation technique is impeccable.”

Jim turned around slowly. Spock stood behind him in his dark blue tunic, eyebrows raised.

Swallowing, Jim dipped his head. “Good evening, Mr. Spock.”

Spock’s expression did not budge. Jim met Spock’s dark eyes.

Spock tilted his head forward. “I clearly forbade visiting T’Prylla. I even placed a lock on the door. Why did you do it?”

“There’s no reason to treat her like that,” said Jim. “Locking her up, depriving her of food and water.”

“It is my policy for offenders.”

“And why is that? Shouldn’t the aim be to reform, not to punish?”

“While that is the case in ideal circumstances, reformative measures clearly cannot be afforded in our present situation,” replied Spock. “The risk T’Prylla poses to the Sanctuary is too great. Furthermore, in order to better protect the refugees, we must establish an example of the importance of following policy.”

Jim couldn’t help the vast feeling of disappointment.

“This isn’t about policy, Spock!” exclaimed Jim. “This is about decency and civilization. The way T’Prylla must feel—”

“Attempting to comprehend the emotional context only serves to confound logical decision making.”

“Spock, it doesn’t matter if you don’t understand the emotional context,” said Jim. “I don’t quite understand it, either. Aravik told me I wouldn’t understand what’s between him and T’Prylla, and I guess she’s right. All I know is that T’Prylla is in terrible pain, and they’re both being torn apart by it.”

His expression remained unflinching. “I do not see how that situation relates to you.”

“Yes, you do,” replied Jim quietly. “The day before yesterday, you rescued two men from the desert who otherwise would have died. You didn’t understand them, either, but you helped them anyway.”

Spock held his gaze in the silence. Jim tilted his head to search his eyes, but they were unreadable.

Spock finally dipped his head. “While you are misguided, I must concede that your statement is logical.” Jim let out a breath. The Vulcan inclined his head to indicate that he wasn’t quite finished. “However, you did violate my policies.”

Jim nodded. “I’ll take the penalty.”

Spock’s eyebrows lifted, and Jim could have sworn that the corners of his mouth tugged. “I am sure you are aware that the water pipe is broken.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware,” replied Jim, casting his eyes down. 

“As penalty for violating my policies, you must accompany me to the oasis to carry water to the sanctuary every evening for a week.”

Jim’s mouth spread into a smile as he met Spock’s eyes. “I think I can handle the extra commitment, Mr. Spock.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I was not aware that you had a choice in the matter,” he replied.

* * *

As the afternoon progressed to evening, the room grew cooler, and they continued work on the tricorder. The progress was slow and halting. Jim found his thoughts wandering and the tricorder stilling in his hands.

McCoy’s eyes slid over to the tricorder resting on Jim’s lap. 

“You’re pretty useless today, aren’t you?” sighed McCoy, grabbing the tricorder from him. “You take the reading, I’ll do the tricorder.”

After an hour, a quiet knock sounded on their door. Jim rose. 

“Come in,” he called, straightening his garments.

Spock opened the door, dressed in a light cloak. “It is cool enough to go now,” he said. 

“Well, good evening to you, too,” said McCoy, glancing up at Spock. 

Spock acknowledged him with an eyebrow raise and a nod, then turned back to Jim. “Are you ready to come?”

Pulling on his cape, Jim smiled. “I thought you said I have no choice in the matter, Mr. Spock.”

He joined Spock in the doorway. Spock began to close the door behind them. Then, as his eyes travelled downwards, his brows furrowed.

“Doctor,” he said carefully, “what is…that?”

McCoy also looked down at the disemboweled tricorder in his lap, mouth drawn with resignation. “I don’t even know anymore,” he sighed. 

* * *

Spock pushed the door open, and the two of them stepped from the red-lit hallway into the desert night. The horizon ahead glimmered purple in an echo of the sunset, illuminating the curves of the sand dunes. The warm desert breeze wrapped around them, stirring their cloaks and their hair. 

The purple ribbon of the horizon unraveled into darkness, and the land around them folded itself into shadows. Buckets clattering quietly against their legs, the two walked to the oasis. Only the buckets, their soft footfalls in the sand, and the occasional animal call punctuated the vast desert silence.

“Spock,” said Jim, “I have to apologize for the whole scene yesterday. It’s your sanctuary. It’s not really my place to tell you how to run it.”

He didn’t reply for a while. “I must admit that while I did not anticipate your actions, I was not entirely surprised by them,” he said.

“Why?”

“You are not governed by logic. From what I have observed, you are irrational, effusively emotional, and impulsive.”

Jim laughed. “Well, I’d say that’s a fair assessment, Mr. Spock.”

“I utterly fail to comprehend your thought process.”

“Well, Mr. Spock,” he said thoughtfully, “Maybe emotions are a form of logic, too.”

As they continued walking, Jim found his thoughts going back to yesterday. The merging of consciousness, the warm feeling spreading within him—

“You do not belong here,” stated Spock contemplatively.

Jim looked over at him. The shadows softened Spock’s Vulcan profile, the defined nose and the line of his jaw. “Yeah?” he replied. “What makes you think that?”

Spock glanced at Jim’s ears and eyebrows. “Beyond the obvious?”

He chuckled. “Sure.”

When Spock spoke, Jim realized that the Vulcan, too, had been considering the previous day. “I was speaking your scientific knowledge and your vision of the future. You perceive and understand with unusual depth, and yet…” He thought, his brow furrowing. “There is something else that I have rarely encountered. Something I have difficulty describing.”

He was silent for a moment, and the buckets clanked against his legs. “Where do you think I belong, Spock?”

The hush of the desert wind overtook the pair for a moment. “I wish I could say.”

Ahead of them, a silvery light shimmered off of water, illuminating the slender grasses and water plants. Spock dipped his head. 

“This is the Great Oasis.” 

The breeze blew on their faces, light and refreshing with moisture. As they stepped towards the glistening water, the grasses rustled against their legs. Insects hummed quietly around them, bright lights twinkling amongst the trees.

Jim stopped and took off his hood. “This is beautiful." The glow glimmered in his eyes.

Spock looked over to glimpse the open wonder on Jim’s face. Then, turning away, he took a few steps towards the water and knelt down. Jim followed him, walking through the reeds to the edge of the pool. He knelt. His knees sank into the wet soil. Rolling up his sleeves, he dipped the first bucket into the water. The silvery water slipped over his hands and arms, delightfully cold. 

They filled their buckets side by side. When their buckets brimmed with water, Jim looked over at Spock, waiting for him to rise. However, he made no move to leave. As Jim turned back to the water, he saw Spock looking towards him. The wind wrapped around them, and the insects hummed in the trees.

Wordlessly, Jim stood. He retreated to the tree at the water’s edge, settling on a broad, flat rock nestled in the tree’s roots. He heard a rustle of grass and footsteps in wet soil as Spock followed and sat beside him. 

A streak of silver light glimmered on the water. As Jim stared at it, he grew aware of another inner light within him, deep inside his consciousness. The longer he gazed into the oasis, listening to the wind and waters, the more he felt himself opening, falling away.

“Spock.”

The Vulcan turned his sharp, slender face to Jim. The light from the water lingered in his hair.

“Telepathy among your people is only possible through touch, isn’t it? Unless they are bonded, of course.”

Spock tilted his head, but didn’t question the “your.” Jim let the mystery dissolve in the air between them.

“Even when telepathy happens,” he continued, “you can usually only sense the shields, right?”

Spock was silent for a few moments. The breeze wrapped around the two, stirring their cloaks and hair.

“That is true,” he said.

He slightly turned to Jim, waiting for him to question. However, Jim didn’t press. Spock didn’t continue, because he didn’t know anything beyond that.

“I can’t pretend I understand,” Jim concluded, “but I’m very glad it happened. It probably saved our lives.”

“Yes.”

They looked out at the water. A group of firebugs flashed over the surface and hovered about Jim, the bright lights sparking around his face. Jim gently waved them away. The lights winked in his eyes as they diminished into the night.

Jim watched them go, the brightness fading in his eyes. He drew in a breath. “You know, Spock, you don’t quite belong here, either.”

Spock turned to him, waiting for him to continue. Jim shook his head slightly.

“All the Vulcans around you fighting all the time over blood and heritage…and then there’s you, with your ideals of logic and science and exploration. You’re not like them, Spock. You’re different.”

In the silence, Jim heard Spock draw in a breath. “I cannot, in fact, fight over blood,” he said. “My mother is of an unknown tribe. I never was truly one of them. The difference you speak of is not an intention, but an accident.”

Jim laughed softly. Spock looked over, startled. Smiling, he said, “Spock—” His hands rose into a half-motion as he considered how to explain it to him, and how to convey the simple feeling that welled up inside him at the hesitance and vulnerability in Spock’s eyes. “ _Kol-Ut-Shan_ , Spock,” he said finally. “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations.” His hands fell, and he craned his head up to look at the stars. “Every one of us is a cosmic accident. But there will be a future where there are so many variables, so many different possibilities, that where you come from hardly matters anymore. It’s a future you should be proud to fight for.”

They sat in warm silence for a while as the insects murmured around them. Spock turned his eyes upwards. 

“You also fight for this future,” surmised Spock.

Jim gazed out. The hum of the insects became the vibration of his ship, and the voices of the wind in the trees transformed into the bustle and conversation as he strode onto the bridge, settling into his chair. The voices were immediate, yet irrevocably distant and empty. 

He was silent for so long that Spock turned all the way to face him. His open, waiting face brought Jim back from the cold noise of the ship to the warm winds and waters. 

Jim’s mouth twitched. His hands rose, then fell back into his lap. “It’s difficult to keep fighting. But I do my best.” 

The wind blew, and they heard the handles of the buckets clink, reminding them where they should be. Spock looked at Jim, and Jim nodded. They both rose and lifted their buckets.

They walked back over the desert in the deepening night.

* * *

After several trips there and back, they had fetched all the water the sanctuary needed. Spock set down his final two buckets and opened the door, and the bright artificial light shone forth. Thanking him, Jim stepped into the cool hallway, pulling on his hood.

He turned back. “Spock?”

Spock gazed at him, his hand still on the door. The expansive darkness glimmered around his figure. Jim dropped the hood.

“Thanks for letting me help you,” he said.

Spock nodded. “The assistance was appreciated, Captain,” he replied smoothly.

The corner of his mouth tugged in a smile. “Please, call me Jim.”

They took their buckets to the water room. Then, Spock walked him back to his room.

Jim stepped through the door. “Are we going again same time tomorrow?”

“Your sentence has only just begun,” replied Spock. 

Jim laughed softly. “Good night, Spock.”

Spock nodded, the corners of his mouth curved up ever so slightly. “Good night, Jim.”

* * *

Jim closed the door behind him. With only a vague look in McCoy’s direction, he walked over to his mattress and settled down. Changing his mind, he swiftly rose again and paced the length of the room. 

McCoy looked up from the tricorder. “Well?” he inquired.

Jim paused and looked over at him. “What?”

“Did you and Spock have a nice outing? 

He laughed. “Outing? We carried buckets of water through the desert, Bones.”

“If you say so,” replied McCoy. He hid his smile by ducking his head to look at the tricorder. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Jim restlessly settled back onto the mattress.

He had to look all the way back up to confirm what he saw. The hard, fixed expression on the captain’s face had completely fallen away. Jim’s cheeks was flushed with exertion and the desert wind, his face vibrant with life. It was a raw youth McCoy hadn’t seen in months.

Jim asked to see the tricorder, and McCoy handed it to him. Jim turned it over in his hands and fiddled with some wires, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. As he leaned over to help Jim, McCoy found his own mind wandering. He felt deep in his heart that something large, inexplicable, and rare was happening. He didn’t know whether it was good or bad, or what would come of it. 

As he lay on his mattress, with Jim’s breath falling into a steady cadence, he studied the expansive darkness above him. That sense of largeness overtook him again. He didn’t know whether to give into a relieved joy or into the insidious uneasiness creeping up on him.

Then he remembered Jim’s hands glazing distractedly over the tricorder, and the wondrous openness of his friend’s face. Somehow, Jim had finally found himself again, and why would he do anything to stop that?

Sighing, McCoy shook his head and smiled. He turned away towards the wall, pulling his blanket over him and resolving to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, if you could check out my new story, "Communion," I'd be ever so grateful. I'm really proud of how it turned out and feedback would mean the world to me. Summary: "At the very end of end-stage heart failure, Jim Kirk enjoys one more day with the people who mean the most to him. His t'hy'la never leaves his side."


	8. The Doctor's Duties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all you beautiful aliens of the universe. I want to apologize for how long this update took! I was beginning a new school year, and swinging back into university life took up all of my attention and energy. Now that I've relaxed into it a bit more, I'm back to continue updating this story. :) Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed this story (and my other story, "Communion.") I've gotten such kind feedback and it means so very much to me.

After lunch the next day, Jim again went to T’Prylla’s room. Loaf tucked under his arm, he slipped through the small corridor and went to the door.

This time, from the outside, the door was left unlocked.

* * *

 

McCoy stepped out of the washroom, his hair wet and his clothing fresh. As he headed towards the dining hall, he noticed that the halls were quite quiet. The few Vulcans he passed seemed silent and sunken in thought. He reached the point where the hallways branched, pausing, and glancing around for anyone he could ask for directions. Seeing no one, he chose one corridor and kept walking.

He reached an empty corridor so narrow that the walls nearly touched his shoulders. He glanced around, but continued on to the door at the end, pushing it open.

The room within was cool and dark with a single light orb on the ceiling, much like their own. A few small stacks of stones along the walls served as adornment. Across the mattress was a low, smooth slab with a small woven mat in front of it, like the ones used for kneeling in Spock’s sessions.

Realizing he had walked into a private room, McCoy quickly began to retreat. However, his eyes fell on what was atop the stone slab: a roll of paper with neat writing and a bundle of wires. McCoy stepped towards the slab. 

The next thing he knew, he had been knocked to the floor with a knife to his throat. Gasping, he looked up into the eyes of his attacker.

Spock looked back at him, his eyebrows furrowing in recognition. He drew the dagger away from McCoy’s throat, carefully placed it on the table, and lifted off of the man.

McCoy, panting, pulled himself to his feet. “Now what the hell is your problem?” he demanded in Standard.

Spock regarded him. “I request an explanation of why you were in my quarters.”

“I was breaking in to see if Vulcans were really Christmas elves and to check if they’d wrapped my presents yet,” McCoy retorted in accented, slightly breathless Vulcan. When Spock frowned and blinked, he sighed, “Jesus Christ, that was a joke. I’m on serving duty, and I took the wrong turn on the way to the mess hall. What did you think?”

Spock studied McCoy’s eyes, still bright and blown wide. After a moment, he dipped his head. “I offer you my most sincere apologies, Doctor. After the recent incidents, I have been…alert.”

“Mmm,” replied McCoy, looking away and panting slightly. “I understand.”

“We are both agitated. Let me pour some tea.”

Spock retreated behind a curtain to a small anterior chamber and shortly returned with two cups. He glanced around, searching for a place that could seat two people. Because all of the items in his room were designed for a single person, they ended up unfolding the mat by the slab, spreading it on the floor, and sharing it like a picnic blanket. McCoy almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

As they sat down, Spock looked at him pointedly. McCoy frowned, then nodded, understanding, and lowered his hood. Then, they settled down, McCoy sitting cross-legged and Spock kneeling. They both sipped at their tea. The drink was a bit too strong and bitter for McCoy’s taste, but it was refreshingly cool, soothing his nerves and calming his heartrate.

McCoy opened his mouth to dispel the silence, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. As Spock looked up, McCoy covered it by taking a quick sip of tea. Spock looked back down at his own drink, and after a moment, took it up and tilted a little into his mouth. McCoy looked over the rim of his cup to check that Spock was sufficiently absorbed in other thoughts, then put down his cup again, glancing away.

After several long moments and a short sip, Spock noted, “You were observing my wires.”

“Yeah,” said McCoy, exhaling slightly. “They’re like nothing I’ve seen here. What are they?”

“They are mnemonic memory circuits. I receive these materials in exchange for my services to the tribe. They are utilized in extracting information from information storage devices and converting it to a readable format.”

McCoy blinked. “Sorry, did you say…?”

“Mnemonic memory circuits,” he repeated. “The tribe’s government has use of special devices in order to transmit and receive information in the form of radio frequencies. I am attempting to emulate their devices in order to detect these radio frequencies myself, so that I may eventually develop advanced communicating technology.”

“Incredible,” said McCoy.

“Thank you.”

“Years ahead…”

He broke off. Spock raised an eyebrow, but did not question.

McCoy’s brow furrowed. “Listen, uh—Spock, I know this sounds crazy, but Jim and I have been looking for wires like that.”

Spock regarded him, his cool gaze inviting him to elaborate.

McCoy continued, “I really don’t know how to explain it, but we’ve been looking for something similar since we got here.”

“Are you asking to borrow these wires?”

“Well, yeah.”

“To what end?”

“Uh…science.”

Spock considered. McCoy sighed. “Look, Spock, I really— _Jim_ really needs them, and it’s very important.”

“I will lend them to you on the condition that you will be able to return them in the same state,” said Spock cautiously, taking a delicate sip.

“Thank you, Spock. We promise,” replied McCoy with relief.

McCoy drained the last of his cup, and Spock did the same with his. He went to put away the cups, while McCoy carefully refolded the mat and replaced it where it had been before. Spock returned, wrapping the wires in cloth, and handed them to McCoy.

“You must be careful with them,” he cautioned.

“Don’t worry, we will,” assured McCoy. “Thanks, Spock.”

He turned to leave, breathing out with relief as he placed his hand on the doorknob. Pulling on his hood, he opened the door.

“Doctor?”

McCoy turned, dropping the hood. Spock stood before him in the cool darkness, tilting his head.

“May I ask you a question?” he asked quietly.

McCoy opened his palms. “Sure, Spock. What is it?”

“I would appreciate it if you shut the door.”

The doctor did so.

“There is something I have been struggling to comprehend, but I have been frustrated in my attempt,” he began. “If I am not mistaken, your companion informed me that his name was ‘Captain.’ Why does he now wish for me to call him ‘Jim’?”

The doctor burst into laughter, eyes sparkling with merriment. “Spock—” He decided not to attempt an explanation. Instead, he smiled warmly and said instead, “Because he likes you.” As he looked at Spock’s face, the sharp brows knitted together, McCoy’s smile sunk back. “He doesn’t let down his guard easily.” 

McCoy fixed Spock in an edged look. Spock met his gaze.

“Doctor,” he said, “causing harm to a being in my sanctuary without reason is not only illogical, but also—”

“Good.” He pulled up his hood. “And, uh—thanks, Spock.”

The Vulcan nodded. McCoy shut the door.

* * *

“Well, Bones,” said Jim over dinner. “Let's begin work on the tricorder after the meal. How long do you think it will take us to extract this information?”

McCoy grunted into his soup. “Don’t ask me. I’m not the Science Officer here.” He thought. “I don’t know, maybe two, three days if we are lucky. Most likely around five.”

“But neither of us are mechanics or technicians,” mused Jim. “If we really work at it, we would be just in time. For whatever it is that's going to happen in a week.”

McCoy took a long drink from his bowl and set it down. “That’s what I hope.” He reached for his glass of water. “But Jim, what if it's something that you have already done, and you just don't know yet that you have done it? What if it's already too—”

He looked up from his drink and found the space across him empty. He looked around. Jim was walking towards the end of the table. McCoy sighed in resignation and reached for his bowl of soup again, keeping one eye on Jim to make sure he wasn't planning anything crazy.

Jim settled into a gap between the rest of the Vulcans and Aravik, who was drinking short, quick drinks of his soup.

“Good evening, Aravik. How are you?” asked Jim.

Aravik looked up, just noticing his presence. He nodded in acknowledgment. “Captain.”

“Are you doing okay?”

The young man nodded. “Yes. I am fine.” Aravik deliberately lifted his soup bowl and tilted it towards his mouth.

Jim turned to face Aravik fully. He carefully drew in a breath. “You’re worried about T’Prylla, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Aravik’s brow furrowed. “She has been shielding. And in addition, we are yet unbonded, and unable to communicate well without contact.”

"Aravik, T’Prylla is all right. I know that must be worrying you.”

Aravik blinked. He set down his bowl and turned towards Jim. “T’Prylla is…?”

“I snuck some bread to her yesterday and today.”

His eyes widened. Several Vulcans fell silent and turned to look at Jim.

“Does Spock know?” asked Aravik.

Jim shrugged. “Yes. We sorted it out.” 

The young man’s brow lifted, and the tension in his face resolved. “I was very concerned,” he said. “With her shielding, I did not know what was happening with her."

Too decorous to eavesdrop on Aravik's private matters, the Vulcans turned away and began to eat again.

"Will you be visiting her again?” asked Aravik.

“As often as possible, if it will ease the two of you.” He leaned forward, his elbow resting on the table. “Aravik, you said you were a technician?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, I was wondering if you could do me and Doctor a little favor. See, we have something we need repaired, and neither of us are very good with that sort of thing, so we thought you might be able to help us.”

“I would like to help,” said Aravik readily, “but wouldn't Spock be a better person to ask? I believe he is skilled with such matters.”

Jim drew a breath. “He is, but I do not want to trouble him. He has already given us his shelter and protection.”

“Oh. I understand. I can help.”

Jim beamed. “Thank you, Aravik. It means a lot to us. Come meet us in our room after dinner.”

His eyes briefly glimmered as before. “I will.”

Jim rose and returned to his place across McCoy. Drinking the last of his soup, the doctor looked up.

“What was that all about?” asked McCoy quietly.

Jim tore off a piece of bread. “What?”

McCoy looked at him. Jim chewed and shrugged. “Delegating tasks is always more efficient. And also, I wanted to give Aravik a project to take his mind off of it all. It seemed like a effective solution for both our goal and for our crewman—for our friend,” he quickly corrected himself.

“Thinking like a captain,” said McCoy thoughtfully, refilling his cup of water. “It took two thousand years away from the Enterprise and God knows how many miles from civilization to get you acting like the captain you used to be. This is the Captain James T. Kirk I know.”

Jim took the jug from him and refilled his cup, too. As he watched the stream of water catching the light as it tumbled into his cup, he nodded slowly. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’” he recited to himself. He lifted the jug, and a few more drops slid over the lip into his cup. 

McCoy snorted, though his eyes shone warmly. “Yeah. That’s the same pretentious bastard I know." 

With the pre-Surak Vulcans eating and talking all around them, Jim and McCoy clinked their cups in a highly incongruous cheers.


	9. Circuits

Aravik accompanied Jim and McCoy to their room to help with the tricorder. His eyes widened as McCoy handed him the device with the circuits.

“Excuse me, but what is this?” Aravik asked.

“It’s a device from where we come from,” said Jim, gesturing towards the mattress. Aravik sank down onto it, the tricorder in his hands. “We have information stored on it that we need to extract, but the sand got into it and messed with some of the workings.”

“It is not working because of the connection here,” Aravik said immediately, indicating something in the depths of the black box. “I can most likely fix this.”

Together, the three of them worked on the tricorder. Midway through the evening, McCoy broke the silence, asking, “So, Aravik. You and T’Prylla. How’d you meet?”

Aravik’s lips turned upwards in a smile, and his hands briefly stilled over the tricorder. “You understand that when I had to flee without my siblings, father, or mother, I felt deep despair. We had to split, but my father warned me never to enter the desert, for I would die there. However, I felt in such deep depression that I thought it no difference whether I lived or died. When I regarded the desert, something pulled me into it. I like to believe that something drew me there.”

“What was it?” asked Jim, untangling a wire, though he already knew what the young man was about to say.

“T’Prylla,” he said, his hands coming to rest together. “Nearly dead with thirst, I collapsed in the sand. At the same time, T’Prylla was traveling to the sanctuary searching for refuge, for she had been persecuted for the darkness of her skin.”

“For the darkness of her skin?” repeated Jim.

“Yes. She narrowly escaped enslavings and hangings.”

“I suppose history repeats itself,” murmured Jim.

“She was also the leader of a growing revolution. When most of her followers were slain, she fled and went to seek T’Karath. She found me and carried me with her to the sanctuary. She saved my life.”

“And then you two fell in love,” said McCoy, smiling.

“We did.” Aravik looked over at Jim. “Captain, do not misunderstand—I greatly appreciate your actions of our behalf. However, Spock must have disapproved greatly of your breach of the rules.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “I received punishment accordingly.”

“You did?” asked Aravik. “Of what sort?”

A rap sounded on the door. Jim looked up.

“Come in,” he said, already rising.

The door opened, and Spock stood at the threshold, dressed in his cloak. 

“Teacher,” said Aravik, immediately dropping the tricorder and bowing all the way to the ground.

Spock acknowledged Aravik with a nod. “Good evening, Aravik. Good evening, Doctor.” McCoy nodded back at him. Spock turned to Jim. “Hello, Jim.”

Jim inquired, “Are we going now?”

“If you are ready.”

“I am.” He turned back. “Aravik, you have done good work. You can return to your room whenever you want.”

“Thank you.” Aravik's eyes never left the pair.

Spock held the door open for Jim, and the two stepped out. The door shut behind them.

Aravik listened to their diminishing footsteps. Then, he asked quietly, “Doctor?”

McCoy, seated before him on the other mattress, inserted a wire into the tricorder. “Yes, Aravik,” he said, smiling a little. “I don't think Spock’s extensive list of rules foresaw this sort of scenario. So Jim's punishment is to carry water from the Oasis with Spock.”

Aravik blinked. “Are they…?”

“I don’t know what's going on, but Jim has been through a lot lately. He's had a lot of responsibility in his hands, seen a lot of death.”

Aravik drew in a breath. “Spock has, too. You would not know how much he has suffered just by looking at him. I believe he has seen and been through much more than anybody knows. I wish I could be like him and have that strength.”

“The two of them—they’re different kinds of people than you and me. Jim has it. Spock has it. Their souls are made of different stuff than ours, for better or for worse.”

“Truly. They are people from another time.”

“You've got that goddamn right.” McCoy reached for the abandoned tricorder. “Well, whatever it is with those two, if it makes Jim quit moping, that's all I need to know.”

* * *

 

The two crossed the desert and stepped into the lushness of the Oasis, kneeling by the pool to fill their buckets. Jim looked to Spock, but as yesterday, the Vulcan made no motion to leave. Spock looked over at Jim, and Jim nodded, pulling his sleeves back up. They sat down on the same rock they had the previous day as the fireflies danced over the water.

They did not speak for a while; the wind in the leaves and the humming of insects hovered around them. The tune was unlike that of insects on Earth, yet warm and with an alien familiarity, like an old song sung in an unfamiliar key. Jim shut his eyes, listening to the enchanting alien harmonies swimming around them.

“There is something that has been on my mind,” said Spock.

Jim studied his face, pale and drawn in profile. “Is this about Aravik and T’Prylla?” he asked.

He drew a breath. “Jim.” He steepled his fingers. “The rules that I have delineated for this sanctuary state that the penalty for murder is death”

He blinked. “Spock?”

“T’Prylla knows this. Everyone knows this. Both according to my rules and for the safety of us all, I must execute her within three days.” 

“You can’t kill T’Prylla, Spock,” said Jim. “She killed the slave trader to protect Aravik. It was unfortunate, but justified.”

“She carried out that action knowing the penalty. I made the rules, and I must carry them out. It is not a matter of what her intentions were. It is only about the result.”

“Do you know why T’Prylla came here?” asked Jim. “She was persecuted. Persecuted for the color of her skin. She endured heat and thirst to get to your sanctuary. She found Aravik along the way and saved his life. How can you do this to her?”

“It is logical.”

“Damn logic. Is the government right? If it's logical to follow the law, why do you not follow theirs?”

Spock exhaled. “I became a leader due to circumstance. One day, a Vulcan took refuge in my house, and thus it all began. I did not want to do this, but I also could not stop it.”

“And you feel that the only way to regain a sense of control is to make your own laws. To control the lives of others. To bind everything to your own sense of order.” Jim blew out a breath. “Spock, how is that any different than what the government is doing?”

“Their laws are concerned with the needs of the few. Mine are concerned with the needs of the many.”

“You can’t encapsulate humanity in broad statements like that. That’s not how it works, Spock.”

“The local tribe came today. The tribe is quite prepared to come again, and to launch a deeper investigation if necessary. If not for your actions, all of the people in my sanctuary may have died, T’Prylla included. I think the logic is applicable in this case.”

Jim was silent, staring at his folded hands. “Well, you can say whatever you want about logic, and according to logic, you might be right. But logic alone doesn't run the world.”

He rose, strode to his buckets, and lifted them up. Spock followed after him, and they walked back to the sanctuary through the heavy darkness.

* * *

 

Spock walked him to his door, and nodding at him, left without another word. Aravik, who had just gone to the door to leave, watched Spock pass, then quietly left himself, bidding Jim good night.

Jim settled down on his mattress, sighing. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

McCoy looked up from the tricorder. “What, trouble in paradise already?”

“Bones, I don’t know what we've gotten ourselves into, coming to the sanctuary at this time.”

McCoy set down the tricorder. “Jim, what happened?”

“Spock says that according to his rules, T’Prylla has to be executed in three days.”

The man sucked in a breath. “That goddamn inhuman bastard.”

“I tried to talk some sense into him, but he wouldn't listen. He just kept talking about logic.”

“God, how can you talk about logic in a time like this?” He frowned. “Jim, does Aravik know?”

“Yes. Everyone knows about this law. It's been an established rule.”

“And I thought Spock was a decent, civilized man.” He looked over at Jim, and his eyes softened. “Jim, take a look at this tricorder. Aravik did some good work with it. We should have it repaired by the day after to tomorrow.”

Jim brought himself to a sitting position at the edge of the mattress and McCoy handed the tricorder to him. He took it.

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Jim murmured to himself, turning the tricorder over in his hands. He opened the battery box and peered inside. “Yes, Aravik did very good work. He is quite a dedicated young man.” 

“Yes. He is,” replied McCoy quietly. “Oh. This reminds me.” He drew a folded piece of paper out from his satchel. “Aravik wanted me to give this to you, to deliver to T’Prylla the next time you bring her bread. He folded it to hide inside the loaf and everything.”

Jim took it from McCoy, turning the small, neatly folded square in his hands. He felt its sharp corners both on his fingertips and in his heart. “A love letter.”

“Of course.”

The captain looked up. His lips were set in a grim line. “Bones, we can’t let this happen. We need to stop this.”

“What about Spock?” asked McCoy. “You got away with it once, but in a matter this big, Spock won’t forgive you.”

He exhaled. With the firmness of resolution came that pain of something unfinished, of some potential forever cut short. “I don’t know, Bones. But it doesn't matter. My first duty is to galactic service.”

* * *

 

“We must find our way through logic. Only reason will enable us to progress, and that alone will allow us to advance.”

The light from the clerestory windows projected hazy red squares on the floor, dividing the earthen floor into segments of light and shadow. Spock surveyed the room coolly, and Jim ducked his head into the shadow, looking away. McCoy glanced at him, then looked back up at the Vulcan.

“That is all I have to say for today. You are dismissed.”

The Vulcans nodded in respect and they all rose. Jim hastily got to his feet and strode towards the door. At the threshold, McCoy came to his side.

“Jim, you just work on the tricorder,” he said. “I will take meal duty for you today.”

As they walked down the corridor, Jim flashed him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Bones.”

“Now don't forget that you owe me one,” warned McCoy, turning the other way to head down to the dining hall.

At that moment, Jim noticed Spock walking a little way away from him. He averted his eyes and went towards the room.

McCoy sighed and turned away, shaking his head. Jim could captain a starship and talk his way out of any situation, but when it came to this sort of thing, he was just as incompetent as the rest.

* * *

Jim settled on his mattress and leaned against the wall, the tricorder in his hands. Adjusting a few wires, he continued the work that Aravik had begun yesterday.

As he worked, he found a certain peace in the methodical connection of wires and arrangement of circuits. He realized that he didn't need to connect all the wires in order for one function of the tricorder to work—he only needed to connect the majority. There was one wire that he couldn't fix, but connecting that one would require disconnecting all the other ones and shortcircuiting them. It worked, anyway. He would just have to leave that one. Logic. He found that word coming to mind. There was serenity in putting the tricorder in order. Logic. He thought over the previous day. Yes, of course by logic, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. That was what made a society function--or an electronic device, for that matter. But was the ultimate aim of society just to function? Was there no room for the individual? Of course, in this case, catering to the needs of the few would have consequences for the whole group. If this one person were allowed to live and remain, the whole group was in danger of death. However, was the only goal to survive—was the only objective to live? Were there no other measures of value?

It turned out that the one wire he couldn't fix had to be fixed, or it would mess up the circuiting in the long run. However, he had run out of circuits to use to fix it. With no other choice, he reached for his communicator and painstakingly opened it, connecting a wire from the communicator to the tricorder in order to create a circuit.

As he returned to the rhythm of circuiting, of trial and error, he returned to his thoughts. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Hell, wasn't that how he ended up in that situation? He had ignored the needs of the few—he had let his friends drift away, he had barely cast a second look at the letters to victims’ families once he had sent them, he hadn't put the effort to remember each cadet’s name and homeworld and favorite books and whatever it was that mattered to them—all in the name of being strong. All in the name of his role as Captain, so he could continue to serve them all as a strong, resolute leader. And the only way he knew to do that, to be the Captain they needed to lead them through life and death, was to detach. 

He put down the tricorder and the communicator in his lap for a moment, considering this. That, perhaps, was where his failure lay. Wasn't that too a choice of the needs of the many over the needs of the few? And there was the true question—what if the needs of the few were ultimately the needs of the many? 

Kol-ut-Shan, he had told Spock. Each being contributed to the diversity of the fabric of space-time in his or her or their or its own unique way. Each thread was a part of the richness, indivisible, yet utterly singular. What if the needs of the few simply could not be compared with the needs of the many? 

Yet, when it came to governing, to ruling, such comparisons necessarily had to be made. Didn't it?

The tricorder flashed with light. Jim immediately picked it up. The communicator, too, began crackling, its lights whirring. Loud pops of static filled the air.

Jim reached for the button and turned down the volume. The static decreased in volume, yet the pops came with more and more frequency. Blurry voices swam through the wires.

“…T’Har has been assassinated by Lady T’Polat…”

“…fighting between factions…”

“…terrorist attack…”

Jim suddenly remembered what McCoy had told him: only the government had access to communication devices. He realized that he was listening to communications from the government itself, though garbled due to their great distance.

The communicator, Jim swiftly realized, allowed the tricorder to broadcast the radio frequencies detected by the communicator. Jim turned the dial of the tricorder, flipping through snatches of the governmental communications on various channels.

He landed on one channel on which crackling voices were discussing recent rebel activity.

“They have stolen weapons and attempted to kill some of the government officials,” one woman was saying. “They are armed and may be dangerous.”

“We have already sent specially trained warriors to torture and execute them under our orders,” said another woman. “Case Number 2349303819 is closed.”

“This is Varick. I would like to update concerning the recent attacks in my district against—”

“Hold. We are receiving another signal from Vulcan’s Forge. Who is this?”

Jim reached for the button to turn off the transmission. Then, having an idea, he took a breath. Swallowing, he deepened his voice. “I am the officer stationed with the Horath tribe in Vulcan’s Forge.”

“So it is. I see that you have at last decided to use the government-issue communication device?”

He breathed out softly with relief. “Yes. The situation called for it,” he said. “You are no doubt aware of my situation,” he continued, testing the waters.

“Yes. We have received numerous reports,” said the woman through cracking static. “As I understand, your brother was killed by a woman whose description matches that of the darkie T’Prylla.”

Jim winced. “Yes. I would like an update of what you are doing to deal with her.”

“Your relatives sent the photographs they took of the perpetrator yesterday to our local government chapter,” she said. “Is that not so?”

“Yes, of course,” said Jim, clutching the communicator close to his face. He glanced up at the door, then looked back down at his device. “So, has that half-wit messenger arrived yet, or has he lost our documents?”

“We expect him by tomorrow. Then, we will compare the photographs with government IDs of that bitch T’Prylla. We will send a messenger back to your tribe with the file of results as soon as possible.”

“And when we get confirmation that it is her, what are we authorized to do?” asked Jim.

The woman’s voice said coolly, “You have done much for us, Leader, in murdering all the rebel tribes of the desert and clearing it of all that scum. We will equip you with all resources to hunt down T’Prylla, and to torture and murder Spock.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Jim switched off the communicator. Then, he set both devices aside. He had made up his mind before he even put them down.

* * *

 

As Jim strode through the door of the dining hall, he saw Aravik passing through the crowd with his tray. He immediately reached for Aravik’s arm.

“Aravik.”

The young man paused. “Captain?”

Jim slipped him T’Prylla’s answering slip of paper. Aravik’s lips curved up as he clutched the paper.

“Thank you so much.”

Jim smiled. “Of course. Aravik, where is the local government chapter for this district?”

Aravik blinked. “There is not one for many miles around. However, the one for our district is in the nearest city, Gol.”

“The city of Gol,” murmured Jim. He patted Aravik on the back as he strode towards the counter for food. “Thank you, Aravik.”

The young man looked after him. “Why do you want to know? Captain?”

Jim went to the counter, and McCoy ladled him a spoonful of hot soup. Jim met McCoy’s eyes.

“Bones, there's something we have to do. Eat as quickly as possible, then we're going back to our room.” 

“Thanks for asking me for my opinion,” grumbled McCoy as Jim began to walk off. Jim came back shortly, leaning over the counter.

“And if there's some bread left over, pack two or three,” he murmured.

Before McCoy had a chance to question, Jim had already mingled into the crowd and was headed for the table. 

He drank his soup as quickly as possible. McCoy joined him shortly, and though he eyed Jim over the rim of his bowl, Jim would not betray anything. Finally, they both rose and headed through the door.

“Now what is this all about?” demanded McCoy quietly, leaning in.

“Wait,” said Jim.

They shortly reached their room. McCoy looked down at the linked tricorder and communicator on Jim’s mattress. “What in the name of God have you been doing?”

Jim shut the door behind them. “It was an accident, a happy accident,” he said. “I was merely trying to link two wires together to repair one, but it ended up receiving radio frequencies from the nearby government chapter. I asked Aravik, it is Gol. How far is Gol?”

“Hold on. Jim, are you saying that we're going to Gol?”

“I spoke to them as the leader of the Horath tribe. I found out that he sent a messenger a few days ago with their incriminating photographs of T’Prylla. They're going to compare these photographs with government IDs to find out whether or not Spock is lying. When they do, they're going to hunt down and kill both T'Prylla and Spock. They said the messenger will most likely arrive tomorrow. There's no way to catch up with him, but we can arrive in time to find and destroy the photographs.”

“So we're going to Gol.”

“Yes.” He paused and looked at McCoy. “Bones, if you don't want to come, you can stay here.”

McCoy sighed. “I see you've already made up your mind. I guess I have to come to make sure you don't get yourself killed. Just one thing.”

“What?”

“We have to tell Spock.”

Jim frowned. “What? Why?”

“Well, my Vulcan geography isn't the best, but last time I checked, Gol isn't a day trip away from Vulcan’s Forge. We can’t just disappear on him, Jim.

“Why?” asked Jim. “He'll just carry on. It is logical, after all.”

McCoy sighed. “Don't pretend you don't understand. Jim, when the two of us had tea together, you know what he said to me?”

“What?”

“Just as I was leaving, he stopped me, and he asked me what it meant that you'd told him that your name is Captain but you wanted him to call you Jim. He didn't want to get anything wrong. He remembers and thinks about everything you say. He wants to understand the significance of each little thing. Spock cares about you, Jim. And if you disappear on him, he wouldn't show it, but it would tear him up inside.”

Jim was silent for a long time. “Well, we're going to return to the Enterprise in a few days, anyway, so there's no point.”

“ _Jim_.” 

McCoy eyed him fiercely. Jim ducked his head.

“I'm sorry, Bones.” He sighed. “You begin packing what we need. I'll go talk to Spock.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to update more quickly from now on--NaNoWriMo got in the way. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! You guys are amazing! Also, to anyone as disappointed in America as I am, I'm sending virtual hugs. #idic


	10. Plateau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. I can't believe I haven't updated in, like, three months. I'm so sorry! Yes, this story is still alive and kicking :) Hope you enjoy this installment.

Standing in front of their host’s door, Jim raised his hand and knocked. “Spock?”

The door opened. Spock stood in the doorway, his face drawn in composure.

“Good afternoon.”

He nodded. “Good afternoon, Spock. Do you have a moment?”

Spock nodded. “Yes. Come in.”

Jim shut the door behind them, and again lacking an extra blanket, Spock unfolded the single blanket he had for kneeling and spread it on the floor, gesturing.

“Please. Sit.” 

Jim did so. Spock walked over to the antechamber and returned shortly with two cups of tea. He handed one to Jim, then sat down before him. As Jim took the cup, their fingers brushed. He quickly took the tea and drank a sip, even though the tea burned.

Spock sat before him, too close. His dark eyes focused on Jim, and in his draped cloak, he was breathtakingly elegant, with his angled brows and sharp jawline. Jim could not look straight at him.

“You came for a reason,” said Spock. “Is there something you wanted to discuss?”

Jim finally looked into Spock’s eyes. He found nothing but the smooth composure, but also a hint of something deeper, though it was too deep to see its nature.

He nodded, swallowing down the burning tea. “Yes. There is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Jim drew a breath, and he explained the incident from that afternoon as he had explained it to McCoy. Spock listened, his tea set to the side, his eyes intently focused on Jim. Finally, Jim sighed and looked away.

“Spock, I know it sounds crazy. I don't expect you to approve. I just thought that if this works…” He drew in a breath. “T’Prylla might not have to die. I just didn't feel right lying to you or leaving without telling you, so I wanted to let you know.”

Spock dipped his head. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Jim hastily downed the rest of his tea. “Yeah.”

He began to rise. Spock looked up. “Jim.”

Jim blinked. Spock blinked back, then regaining his composure, gestured at Jim to sit. Jim obeyed.

Spock said, “I do not know where you are from, but I understand that you are unfamiliar with these parts. What you are attempting is very dangerous.”

Jim nodded, his eyes on Spock’s. “Yes. I know.”

“And so I would like to accompany you.”

His mouth fell open slightly. “Spock?”

“You and McCoy are my guests. For me to allow you to undergo any danger alone would be illogical.”

Jim’s lips began to curve. “And I suppose it would also be illogical to argue with you.”

“Not to mention, ineffective.”

He gave Spock a tiny smile. “Noted.”

Spock hesitated, then extended a hand. Jim grasped it, and Spock helped him to his feet. Then, Spock said, “I will prepare a few things, then I will meet you in your room.”

They met eyes. “Thanks, Spock.”

Jim turned and walked out the door.

* * *

When Jim returned to the room, McCoy had prepared satchels with some bread, the rest of their clothes, medical equipment, and their devices. As Jim walked in, McCoy handed him one. 

“Here’s yours. I will take the other.”

“Thanks, Bones.” Jim looked through it. “Food, clothing, tricorder, communicator. Yes, this should be everything we need.”

“We’re practically carrying our entire wardrobe,” said McCoy. “Since we didn’t have much of anything to begin with.”

Jim smiled. “We were packing for a funeral. I did not know we were packing for a journey back in time and a trip across Vulcan’s Forge to infiltrate the pre-Surak Vulcan government.”

A knock sounded on the door. Jim looked up. “Come in.”

Spock strode in with a small satchel of his own. “I need a few minutes to find someone to fix the water pipe while we are gone and regulate the water. I will meet you outside shortly.”

He closed the door. McCoy frowned and turned to Jim. “Wait, since when was he coming?”

Jim chuckled.  “Just go with it, Bones.”

The two of them straightened up their room, then went down the corridors and through the empty dining hall, glowing dark red with evening. Spock met them there in his evening cloak, coming from the other hallway.

“If you are ready to depart, we can set out now,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to announce your departure to the rest of them?” asked McCoy.

“I have already informed Aravik of our impending absence, for I had asked him to mind the water pipes. I trust that he will spread the news. I do not wish to make our departure a spectacle.”

“That makes sense,” said Jim. 

“So, what’s the plan?” asked McCoy.

They both turned to Spock.

Spock said, “We will have to walk for several hours to the nearest vai-sehlat breeder. We should reach the breeder by nightfall. As it is too dangerous to travel long by night, we will sleep at the plateau until dawn, when we will complete our travel to Gol by vai-sehlat.”

“Vai-sehlat,” repeated McCoy. “What’s that?”

Spock looked quizzically at McCoy and Jim. “I believe vai-sehlats are to be found across Vulcan. You do not have such creatures where you come from?”

They exchanged a glance and shook their heads. Spock nodded slowly.

“Vai-sehlats are a cousin of the sehlat family. They are quadrupeds similar to sehlats, but they are leaner and faster, and able to carry people on their backs.”

Jim nodded. “I see. And by vai-sehlat, we will be able to reach Gol by tomorrow?”

“Indeed. We should be there by midday.”

“Then we should waste no time,” said Jim. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”

* * *

As the night deepened, the three trekked across the vast, barren Vulcan sands. The only sound was their soft footfalls on the sand and the pitch of the warm, dry wind. Jim looked back. The sanctuary had dwindled into the distance and darkness, and all he could see were the forms of McCoy and Spock beside him, and the impossible number of stars in the clear night sky. The land was flat and endless, and the universe opened around them, infinite, rich with stars.

Jim was the first to speak. “These were the kinds of nights I remember from my childhood,” he said. “Filled with stars, and me wanting to be a part of them, to go to them.”

McCoy blew out a breath. “Yeah me, they terrified me. I remember some joker telling me that they were what I’d become when I died, so when I looked up at the blackness that night, I burst into tears and ran inside the house to my mama. I probably never quite got over that one.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Surely you recognized that the idea of becoming a sphere of plasma upon dying is illogical.” 

“Yeah, were you logical when you were five years old, Mr. Spock?” asked McCoy.

Spock merely raised his eyebrows.

“I forget who I’m talking to. I bet you were,” muttered McCoy, shaking his head and wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself.

The Vulcan inclined his head to study the night sky. “I quite enjoyed being outside on clear nights like these,” he said. “I, too, often observed them as a boy. However, the state of Vulcan grew worse and worse. It became dangerous to be outside at nighttime. Nights like these are now rare for me.”

Jim looked over at him. “So you slapped that punishment on me all so that you had an excuse to enjoy the night sky?” he asked, smiling slightly.

 “I punished you because you disobeyed my rules,” replied Spock serenely, never breaking his stride.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed if you want to enjoy the night sky sometimes,” said Jim. “You didn’t have to give me that punishment to do so.”

“Perhaps I did not want to enjoy it alone.”

Jim and McCoy both glanced at Spock. However, his face betrayed nothing.

Jim’s feet began to ache, and his legs grew weary. He looked over, and he saw McCoy slightly short of breath, his eyes fixed determinedly on the destination.

“Spock,” he asked. “Do you know how much longer until we get there?”

“Only a little longer. We will reach there before midnight.”

After a while, the loud, low baying of an animal floated through the night. Jim and McCoy froze.

“What was that?” asked McCoy.

Spock turned. “That means we are nearing our destination. That is the sound of a vai-sehlat.”

Spock raised a whistle to his mouth, producing a piercing, high, reedy noise. Then, they approached the looming form of a corral.

A middle-aged Vulcan woman opened the gate and came through to meet them. “Good evening, Spock,” she said. Though her face was worn with care, her robes were richly woven and intricately draped, while threaded through with sand and tears. Her face in the shadows was regal and queenly.

“Good evening,” Spock returned, dipping his head in deep respect. “I was wondering if it was possible to rent three vai-sehlats, to be returned, at the latest, tomorrow night.”

“Yes. The cost will be 30 pieces.”

Spock counted out the coins and handed it to her. Slipping the coins into her pocket, she headed into the corral. Jim’s eyes followed her as she headed over the the thick-set form of a shaggy four-legged animal, quite like a bear, yet leaner and trimmer. She untied several knots on the fence, then led three vai-sehlats over to them. They padded over to the small group obediently, huffing.

“Thank you.” Spock planted his hands on the vai-sehlat’s back and expertly swung himself onto the beast. Jim and McCoy exchanged a glance. Jim went first, feeling the vai-sehlat’s furry back for some sort of grip, then jumping. He flailed, slipped, and barely landed on his feet. The vai-sehlat yelped as a ball of fur came off with Jim’s hand.

As Jim stroked the beast sheepishly, Spock glanced down from his place atop the vai-sehlat with amusement. Then, leaping gracefully off, he walked over to Jim.

“Place your hands on its back,” he instructed.

Jim did so, and Spock hoisted him up. He then helped McCoy, and once the two were situated, he resumed his place atop his own beast.

The woman returned from the shed with a large bag in one arm and rolled tarp in the other. She lifted the items, and Spock took them, tying it to the sehlat’s back.

“Do not forget to feed them,” she reminded. “They may turn violent if not fed.”

“Well, that’s something we have in common,”muttered McCoy, shifting uneasily atop the animal.

“Understood,” said Spock. “We have one final question. Can you direct us to the plateau?”

The woman pointed up at the sky. “Follow that large star, and you shall soon find it.”

“Thank you.”

Spock reached down and slipped her one last object. The woman quickly slid it underneath her cloak and passed one roll to Spock, then retreated back into her house. Tucking away the roll, Spock lightly tapped the vai-sehlat’s side with his foot, and the beast began to trot. McCoy and Jim did the same, and their vai-sehlats, too, began to move.

Atop his vai-sehlat, Spock said, “We will shortly reach the plateau. It is a high place free of sehlats or other wild beasts. That is where we will stop for the night.”

“All right,” said McCoy.

Jim moved restlessly atop the vai-sehlat, shifting his position. The vai-sehlat’s back was much broader than that of a horse, uncomfortable for him to straddle. “Spock, who is that lady? She seems very familiar with you. And what is she doing living in the middle of the desert?”

“She is here for the same reason that many have fled to the desert,” he said. “She was formerly a very high government official and leader who was manipulated by the various tribes. She tired of the corruption and decided to retreat to the desert with her beloved vai-sehlats. She now makes a business of it with whatever refugees may pass through. It is a more lucrative business than you may suspect, what with the current state of Vulcan.”

“You gave her something, though,” said Jim. “Other than the coins. What was it? Was it a letter or something?”

McCoy glanced over at him. Spock replied, “It was merely a roll of paper with information I had heard from the various refugees. In the desert, it is difficult to obtain information about current affairs. As I harbor the refugees, and she must sometimes go to the towns to buy feed for her vai-sehlats, I exchange information about the state of Vulcan with her. It is the least I can do in exchange for her services.”

“Services?” inquired Jim quickly.

“I mean her vai-sehlats, and the information she grants me in return,” said Spock.

Jim nodded and ducked his head. “Oh, I see.”

McCoy’s eyes slid over to Jim. Then, looking back ahead of him, he shook his head and laughed quietly to himself.

They journeyed for a while. Then, the high, flat shape of a plateau rose from the land, cutting a dark, jagged shape in the starry sky. Spock pointed.

“That is where we must stop.”

He gently steered his vai-sehlat in that direction, and Jim and McCoy followed suit. The vai-sehlats huffed with exertion as they mounted the slope, their shaggy flanks heaving beneath their legs. They made the ascent, and soon, the three had reached the top of the plateau.

As their vai-sehlats arrived at a stop, they all looked out. The land unfolded darkly beneath them, in the shadow of the plateau, yet the sky embraced them as before.

“It is beautiful,” murmured Jim. “What a lovely place.”

“Yes. It is,” said Spock.

Spock dismounted his vai-sehlat, untying the bag of feed and the tarp from the vai-sehlat’s back. The vai-sehlat lowed in answer. As McCoy and Jim set about tying the vai-sehlats, with the fabric tarp, Spock strode to the flattest section of the ground. Clearing away the stones, he lay down a square of cloth and began to open a bundle of rods. Jim finished with the vai-sehlats and came over to help, and together, they started to assemble the tent. 

Spock said, “Doctor, I have the matches in my satchel. Assemble a fire near the tent.”

McCoy set about doing so. Soon, a flame had roared up, hot and crackling. At the same time, Jim and Spock had finished raising a triangular tent for the three of them. The fire warmly illuminated the interior of their rudimentary tent.

“God, it has been a long time since I have slept outside under the stars,” said McCoy, crawling inside. He lay down and curled up on the hard ground, though his muscles were too sore and tired to care.

Jim followed him, stretching out on the ground. The crisp smell of night air mingled with the edge of smoke from the fire. “It’s very nice,” he said, listening to the crackling. 

Spock entered last, after checking to make sure the fire was contained. He pulled down the flap of the tent, darkening the inside. He lay down. Jim felt Spock’s arm against his.

“I think I can see the stars through the fabric,” said Jim, peering out at the cavernous darkness within the tent.

“Good for you. Now let me sleep, you bastard,” McCoy murmured into the crook of his own elbow.

Jim laughed. “Grumpy old man.”

McCoy sleepily aimed towards Jim with his hand. “Shut up.”

The hand landed on Spock’s arm instead. The Vulcan turned in surprise. Looking over at Spock’s face, Jim sniggered.

“If I am incapacitated, you will have no one to lead you to Gol, and no way to return to the sanctuary,” Spock reminded McCoy. “Therefore, I advise that you cease and desist.”

“Yes,” agreed Jim. “`We will have to live in the caves with the sehlats and the le-matyas for company, I am afraid. All in the name of your good night’s sleep. Wouldn’t that be a pleasant future?”

“Well, shit. I should have known you two would gang up on me at some point,” sighed McCoy. 

“We are not ‘ganging up’ on you, as you put it. We are merely stating facts in your own best interest,” came the matter-of-fact baritone voice from beside Jim.

“Green-blooded hobgoblin,” muttered McCoy. He turned the other way to face the tent wall and promptly dropped off to sleep.

As his breathing deepened to a slow cadence, Spock, too, had closed his eyes. Jim remained staring up into the fabric of the tent, listening to the steady breathing of the two people on either side of him. He felt something welling up in him, something strangely old and comfortable, as if the three of them had been friends for much longer. The smoke from the fire drifted into the tent and the warmth burrowed deep through his garments, and he could hear the distant crackling. He remembered weekends by the fire, old-fashioned Christmases.

And for a moment, all the old songs lived in him with memories of pine scent, lights, glittering presents, crisp winter air. He hummed a little to himself.

_“I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents on the tree…”_

Something was ending, or beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update more frequently from now on! K/S is so sweet and pure. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to take this opportunity to thank all my readers who left such wonderful feedback on my other story, "Communion." You have no idea how much it has done for my self-confidence as an artist. "Communion" has changed my life because of you guys. <3


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